


Six Feet Under the Stars

by wittyy_name



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Archer Lance, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, King Keith, M/M, Medieval Fantasy, POV Alternating, Pretend Lovers to Lovers, Robin Hood type character Lance, Strangers to Lovers, concubine Lance, elements of magic, more tags as we go, royal mistress Lance, some minor injuries and blood, warrior king keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 50,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittyy_name/pseuds/wittyy_name
Summary: It's been a year since the tyrannical King Zarkon has been overthrown by his nephew— Keith Yorak Kogane. The Lost Prince, returned to reclaim his birthright. The Warrior King. The True Dragonheart. The Bloody Red Wolf. Ushering in a new era of prosperity and growth.Unfortunately, ruling a kingdom is a lot harder than wielding a sword, and Keith's secretive upbringing amongst the rebellion was more focused on the usurping part than the ruling part. So while he's had the throne for a year, his people know very little about him, and if he's being honest, he hasn't done much for them. The whole mystery surrounding him works for now, but it can't work forever if he wants to keep his throne.Luckily, through a strange twist of fate, he might have found an unexpected ally: Lance, the Blue Lion, leader of a bandit crew that haunts the western woods. It may not the help he hoped for, but it might be the help he needs. His council would never let Lance be one of his advisors, but they can't stop him from making Lance his concubine. And the rise in status is just what Lance needs to make a real difference._________________________A medieval fantasy fake-lovers-to-lovers au
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 165
Kudos: 816





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! Coming at you with a new klance fic!
> 
> If you've been around for a while, you know that I like to challenge myself with different styles, techniques, and ideas with each fic. This is something I've never done, but has turned out to be so much fun so far. It's a choose-your-own-adventure fic, where I have an over arching story and plot, and people help steer it by voting while I'm writing chapters. These choices help influence not only the immediate surface level interactions, but have long term effects for later on. It's been a really engaging and interesting experience so far that is honestly not too different from when I DM for dnd.
> 
> Also, who doesn't love a good ol' medieval fantasy fake-lovers-to-lovers story?
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

So, here’s the thing.

Lance is perfectly capable of being on a stealth mission, alright? He’s a goddamn _master_ when it comes to sneaking around. A little thieving and espionage? He’s among the best of the best. There’s a _reason_ his reputation is what it is, and there’s a reason there are wanted posters around town with his face on them— well, his masked face, anyway.

But he usually likes a little _danger_ to keep himself on task. Nothing like a little challenge to get the blood pumping and up the stakes. The thrill of getting caught? He _lives_ for it. Keeps him steady and sure. Keeps him focused.

He _knows_ the importance of this mission. He’s just not really sure if it can be called a _mission_. It’s more like… bird watching.

You know, if the birds were an entire parade of nobles, servant, and hounds tramping around a forest with little regard for their surroundings.

“I’ll bet you twenty gold pieces that I can knock that nobleman’s hat right off his head.” He’s already pulling his bow off his shoulder.

From a lower branch a little ways around the trunk, he hears the soft scoff. “I know better than to take that bet.” A pause, and then a curious. “But which one?”

“That one,” he says, grinning as he uses his bow to point. “Clear across the company. The hat with the _ridiculously_ wide brim and obnoxiously bright feathers. Can’t miss it.”

“What sort of bird even _has_ feathers that big?”

Lance shrugs, bow dropping as his other hand reaches for his quiver, fingertips sliding along the fletching of his arrows. “Who knows. A griffin? A great eagle? One of those land birds from the south? Either way, the dyes alone could have fed a family for a month.”

“The feathers themselves could have fed the family for _six months_.”

“I don’t think he deserves that hat. Do you, Hunk?”

He’s already notching an arrow when Hunk hisses a warning, “ _Lance. No arrows.”_

He sighs, arms dropping as he whines a soft, “But _Huuuunk_. I’m so _bored_.”

“We’re not supposed to do anything. Just wait and watch. We agreed _specifically_ not to engage. Don’t blow our cover.”

“I wouldn’t, Hunk. You _know_ how good I am. I could pin that man’s hat to a tree and time it so he’d think it was one of the other noblemen. We can even make a game of it. Who do you want me to frame for it?”

“Laaaance.” _That_ is a tone he’s far too familiar with. Not the stern one. Not the exasperated one. But one that is wholly _Hunk_. The worried one, where his nerves start to get the best of him and his stomach starts to roll.

And despite his boredom, he doesn’t like worrying his best friend. So he sighs and concedes, slipping his arrow back into his quiver. “Fine, but just know that it wouldn’t give our position away. They have no awareness of anything. I swear not a single one of them has looked up this whole time.”

“Probably because someone would have to be _stupid to attack a royal procession.”_

“I wasn’t going to _attack_ them,” he mutters, hooking his bow back over his shoulder and crossing his arms over his chest. He leans against the tree trunk, idly swinging his feet. “I was just trying to have a little fun.”

“I’d prefer if you _didn’t_ try to have fun when half the royal guard is out here.”

Lance huffs, but holds his tongue. Not that he really needs to. He doubts they’d be heard even if they were shouting at one another. The royal hunting party is just _that loud._

All the noblemen are mounted, dressed in clothes that are meant to be hunting attire, but are far too rich to be tromping around in the mud. Their horses’ saddles are adorned with family crests and the leather dyed to match. Their footmen and servants stamp around the underbrush, carrying their goods and weapons. Guards are interwoven in the bunch, wearing armor that clanks and rattles.

The huntsmen lead the way, and at least they’re putting in effort to be stealthy and soundless, but at this point, it doesn’t matter.

Not with the hounds baying. The horses making all sorts of anxious and annoyed sounds. The servants blathering. The noblemen _bragging._

Oh, and don’t forget the _bugle-men_ who announced the arrival _and_ the start of the hunt.

Lance hasn’t seen a single animal show feather or tail since the hunting party arrived, and he doubts they’ll find anything no matter how long they stay.

They’re giving it their best— or worst— shot though. All spread out in a wide sweeping arc as they move forward, canvasing the forest for anything worthwhile.

They’re so wrapped up in their own idiocy that they haven’t even noticed Hunk and Lance trailing them from the start. Now don’t get him wrong. He and Hunk? They’re good at stuff like this. They make a living off of stuff like this. But here? They barely have to _try_.

They’ve just been shuffling behind trees, hiding in the underbrush, and climbing up into the higher branches. The hunting party doesn’t move quickly either, allowing him and Hunk to find a good spot to watch from afar and just kick it back for a while.

It’s easy.

It’s _boring._

And Lance finds himself losing focus.

He sighs— _again_ — and pulls the spyglass from his pocket. It’s an old thing. Metal worn and glass scratched. But it’s well oiled and well taken care of— one of his most prized possessions— and it slides open without a sound.

He peers through it, doing another sweep of the royal company. From one end to the other. From the huntsmen, to the hounds, to the servants and banner men, to the guards, to the mounted nobles and knights.

Despite this being a _royal_ hunting party— supposedly to acquire meat for the feast tomorrow, a ball held in honor of the new king, the anniversary of his crowning and Zarkon’s defeat— he has yet to actually _see_ the king.

Not that he really knows who he’s looking for.

He’s heard of the king, of course. The lost lost prince who was long thought dead and came back to defeat his uncle, end his tyranny, and take back his birth right. Everyone’s heard the stories about the Warrior King. The True Dragonheart. The Bloody Red Wolf. Fierce on a battlefield. Wild as his ancestors. With a mane of dark hair and fierce eyes. Handsome, they say, though Lance has yet to confirm this for himself.

They don’t get much royalty out in the woods, and he wasn’t exactly at the heart of the war.

That, and the king almost never shows himself. Stays locked away in that castle of his, calling the shots from a throne he never lets anyone see. Lance still hears whispers of his beauty, rugged and sharp and fierce, but everyone he’s confronted about it has never actually _seen_ the king.

He hates it. The whole mystery surrounded him. The whole dark and brooding thing. The whole lost prince thing. It builds up his reputation, as some handsome savior, and undermines the fact that he’s done _nothing_ since his crowning. Nothing for the people, and nothing for the kingdom. As far as Lance is concerned, he’s no better than his uncle. No matter how pretty he might be.

Still, he had been looking forward to finally getting a good look at him. But it turns out the king will once again disappoint him.

Because while Lance has no idea what the king looks like, he’s certain the king isn’t here. He may not know the guy’s face, but he knows a king when he sees one. They’re hard to miss. With all that pomp and circumstance. All the rich fabrics and glittering jewels. Even a warrior king would command respect and attention.

And as Lance looks, he sees no one who fits the bill of _King_. Snooty noblemen, sure. Knights, of course. Royal guard, check. But no king.

He does, however, spy a horse with golden reigns and an empty saddle.

“Couldn’t be assed to hunt himself, but he sends out his horse,” Lance mutters dryly. “Amazing.”

The horse’s reigns are tied to another, led by a mounted knight— none other than Sir Shirogane. Head of the royal guard. Hero of the war. The _Champion_. With a cut jaw line and handsome features. Sitting poised, tall, and proud in his gleaming armor. Not blathering like other nobles. Eye on the hunt.

Now _that’s_ a man Lance would call king.

And, you know, the fact that he once saved Lance’s life, helped his family, actually cares about the people, and is sort of Lance’s hero… that helps, too.

Shiro rides with the king’s horse at the center of the company, and as much as Lance would love to relish an opportunity to actually see the Champion in action, he swings the spyglass away. They’re not here to gawk and stare, even if that’s all they seem to be doing. No matter which way you cut it, they _are_ on a mission. Even if it’s a boring one.

See, their hideout and center of operations is in these woods. They _own_ these woods— unofficially, anyway. This is their home and their base. The huntsmen usually don’t come here, preferring to take their hunts to the northern woods, where the mountains rise and the bigger game live. But with a company this large, the flatter, bigger western forest is a better place.

For the fanfare of it all. Not for the actual hunt. Though Lance has been informed it’s more about the _presentation_ than the actual meat.

Anyway, point is, he and Hunk are here to keep an eye on things. To make sure that the party doesn’t stray too close to their hideout. They’ve got men waiting in the wings for signals, ready to cause distractions that will steer the royal company elsewhere if needed.

After all, they’re supposed to be hunting game. Not the infamous Blue Lion and his pride.

So he sweeps his gaze lazily along the outer perimeter of the hunting party. Along the front arc where the huntsmen creep forward. Along the sides where the guards and soldiers take up the wings. Along the back where the servants trudge, and some of the lazier guards who don’t seem to be paying much attention, and a cloaked figure who seems to be—

“Well, well, well,” Lance hums, swinging his spyglass back to the figure. “What do we have here…”

A man, by the look of him. Wearing a cloak that was plain and ordinary enough that Lance _might_ have mistaken him for a commoner, save for the embroidery he spies along the hem and the glittering broach pinning the front. His clothes are simple, but finely made. Ordinary, but of rich materials. His boots are smattered with mud.

It’s the strangest combination Lance has seen all day, and it piques his interest.

That, and his strange behavior.

It’s clear that he’s lingering. Crouching down to touch the dirt and fiddle with the undergrowth. It’s not uncommon behavior during a hunt, but Lance knows enough about tracking to know that this man isn’t tracking. His eyes aren’t on the ground. His head is tilted up, eyeing the rest of the party while he idly— thoughtfully— runs his fingers through the brush.

He’s… waiting.

Waiting as the procession moves past him at their lazy pace.

And when he stands, he moves slowly, still letting them pass. He moves to the side, checking out another spot. And he keeps it up, slowly but surely shifting toward the edge of the spread out hunting party. He talks to no one. Keeps his head down. And while they do look at him, they look away just as quickly when he gives them a sharp stare.

As Lance watches, he lingers at a tree. His back is to their hiding spot, and while Lance can’t get a good look at his face, he sees the way his nails bite into the bark of the tree— the way he looks around— the way he waits until the last of the party moves past him—

Before turning sharply and darting away into the woods.

“Hunk,” he says, already moving. He snaps the spyglass closed and slides it into its spot on his belt. “Stay here, I’m going to check something out.”

“Whoa, whoa, _wait_ ,” Hunk hisses, reaching out to snag Lance’s shirt as he starts to climb down the tree. “What’re you doing?”

“Checking something out, like I said—“

“Ooooh, no. No, no, no. Lance, there’s a thing in your eyes. I _know_ that look. That’s _not_ a good look.”

He tilts his head, offering his most innocent smile as he bats his eyelashes. “Why, Hunk. Whatever do you mean?”

“ _Lance_.”

“Buddy, I’ll be careful, I promise, okay? I just saw someone break off from the group, and I wanna see what he’s up to.”

Hunk levels him a flat look. “He’s probably just going to take a piss, Lance. People _do that_ in the woods. _We_ do that.”

“No, man. This was different. He looked _suspicious_.” He shakes his head, continuing his climb down the tree.

Hunk, bless his soul, does his damnedest to hold on, going so far as to crouch on his branch and stretch Lance’s shirt. Until he finally jumps down and the cloth slips from Hunk’s grip. “Some people are shy about peeing!” He whispers, glancing around to make sure no one noticed Lance’s movement.

They don’t. He’s good at this, and they’re idiots.

“Hunk, just… _relax_ , okay? I’m just going to go check it out. If he’s just pissing, I’ll come right back.”

Hunk’s eyes narrow, lips pursing as one brow raises. “No antics?”

He puts a hand over his heart, holding the other one up. “No antics, I swear,” he says as solemnly as he can.

Finally, Hunk sighs. “Fine, but hurry up, and _be careful_. I’ll keep an eye on the main party, but if they move too far forward, I’m going to relocate.”

“No problem, buddy. I’ll find you.”

Hunk still looks worried, but he lets him go. Resigned, exasperated, but fond beneath it all. Despite his nerves, he knows that Hunk trusts him.

So with a quick glance back at the hunting party, Lance slinks off into the woods. He keeps low, knowing exactly how to move as silent as possible in the underbrush, keeping behind bushes and the shadows of tree trunks. He stays downwind of the hounds, picking his way quickly but carefully.

And he heads in the direction he had seen that man go.

Out of habit, he reaches to the bunching of fabric at his neck, pulling it up until it rests snug across his nose and cheeks, hiding most of his face before pulling his hood up to shadow the rest. His bow slips from his shoulder, finding its way easily into his hand. Arrows still in their quiver, but at the ready all the same. The fingers of his free hand twitch, eager to draw one.

Finding the man proves more difficult than Lance had imagined. In fact, he had anticipated just finding him bumbling around the woods, not bothering to be stealthy about it once he left sight of the hunting party. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. Which also rules out Hunk’s pissing theory.

He does manage to find the trail though, once he sets to looking for one. He’ll admit, the man is good. Lance can tell from his tracks that he’s moving silently and keeping low. Much like Lance himself. He’s also moving quickly, already out of sight in the time it took Lance to get down from his perch and find the trail.

Curious.

Definitely curious.

The man wasn’t dressed as a knight, and his clothes were far too fine to be a servant, but he doesn’t move like a nobleman. He has to be a huntsman. A personal one, perhaps? That would explain why he was at the back of the group and not the front. He could have snuck off, trying to find a beast for his master to brag about later when the rest of them find nothing.

It takes a lot longer to find him than Lance had counted on, and he’s good at tracking. The man managed to get some distance. He knows Hunk will be alright without him, but he just hopes he won’t worry too much.

As Lance catches sight of him, he slips behind a tree, crouching low in the shadows as he peers around the trunk.

The man waits at the edge of a clearing, in a very similar position. But instead of a bow, he holds a knife in his hand, blade pointed downward, parallel to his forearm. He still can’t get a good look at him. Just his cloak and his hood. But it’s clear that he’s watching the clearing.

Lance’s eyes follow— and he inhales sharply.

A boar. A _large_ one at that. Nearly three times his size, with a wiry scruff around its neck, trailing down its back. Tusks long and wicked. Snout surprisingly narrow. Shoulders hunched higher than its haunches.

Not just a boar then. A _northern_ boar. A ridgeback. Far more vicious, larger, and temperamental than their smaller counterparts. The meat is far more tender, too, but it takes at least a party of five to take one down. That, and a whole lot of luck.

It shouldn’t be this far down the foothills, and what’s even more daunting is the fact that it’s _alone_. They’re never alone. They travel in mated pairs and family units.

The huntsman starts to creep forward with nothing more than a fucking _knife_ , and Lance watches in horror.

He’s _insane_ , and he’s about to get himself killed.

Lance’s fingers twitch, silently drawing an arrow out of his quiver and notching it against his bow. He presses his back to the trunk, head turned to peer around the tree. Eyes flickering between the man and the boar.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) Get the guy's attention, whispering harshly, calling out his folly and idiocy_

_**2) Take action, shoot an arrow, pin his cloak to a tree so he can't move, cocky introduction** _

_3) Shoot into the forest, scaring the boar away, stay hidden but remove the danger_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The wind shifts, a breeze rolling through the trees. The boar lifts its head, thick nose twitching, snuffling, snorting. Tusks glinting wickedly in the afternoon sun. Lance holds his breath, eyes snapping back to the huntsman— who seems to have frozen. Good. But then the boar exhales a huff, turning and making its way into the trees, back to where they’re hiding. As soon as it moves, the huntsman is moving, too, creeping forward on soft but quick steps—

“Oh, fuck it,” Lance mutters, sending a silent apology to Hunk as he steps out from behind the tree. His bow swings up automatically, drawing the string back, eyes locking onto his target. He doesn’t take the time to think about it. He never does. He trusts his aim and his body. And with that trust, he never misses.

This is no exception.

The moment his fingers release the arrow, he knows it’ll find its mark.

The soft _twang_ of the string’s release is swiftly following by the satisfying _thud_ of the arrow sinking into the trunk of a tree— pinning the man’s cloak firmly in place.

The fabric threatens to tear as the man’s step follows through, but instead it catches, pulling his momentum back.

Lance smirks, already darting back behind the tree as the man spins around.

He waits… breath held…

“Who’s there?” Comes the voice— hissed, low, and demanding. It’s also deep, rugged, heated. A shiver works its way down Lance’s spine. Oh. Oh, now that’s interesting. He _really_ wants to get a look at what sort of face matches a voice like that. “I know you’re there. _Show yourself_.”

He could simply slink back into the forest. He could hide and control this situation from afar. He could distract the boar and anonymously save this man’s life, and he’d never see head nor tail of Lance himself.

But, really… who is Lance to deny a voice like _that?_

“I’d keep it down if I were you,” he says lowly, voice like honey, rich and smooth. He steps around the tree, leaning a shoulder against it, bow in one hand, hung limply at his side, and the other hand on his hip. Beneath this mask, his lips curl, confident and amused. Hunk has told him his smile— and smirk— doesn’t need to be seen to be heard. “Don’t want to alert the boar of our presence, do you?”

The huntsman spins to face him, cloak billowing as he drops into a defensive crouch. He holds his dagger in front of him, with Lance’s arrow clutched in his other hand.

He’s…

_Wow._

Lance had been hoping the face would match the voice, and he isn’t disappointed. A sharp jawline and high cheekbones. Pale, smooth skin and thick brows pulled together as dark eyes narrow. Dark hair frames his face, falling haphazard and wild beneath his hood. A dusting of dark stubble decorates his jaw. A scar cuts up from neck to cheek.

He’s rugged. He’s wild. He’s handsome as hell.

And his lips purse into a scowl as he lifts his chin a fraction, biting out a sharp, “Who’re you?”

Lance’s smirk widens beneath his mask, pressed tight against the fabric as he straightens. One arm held to the side, he crosses his bow in front of him, falling into a dramatic and deep bow. And from that bow, he tilts his head up, eyes glinting through his lashes as he purrs, “The Blue Lion, at your service.”

A second passes.

Then two.

Lance holds his pose, and the man blinks. His eyes narrow. His nose wrinkles as his brows furrow. “Should I… Should I recognize that name? I’ve never heard of you.”

Lance eye twitches, heart sinking in his chest. Though his smile shifts to an irritated frown, he tries to keep his voice light hearted as he straightens. Tall and proud, idly dusting off his leather vest. He can’t deny that he puffs out his chest a little, straightening his hooded tunic. Hoping that if he puts himself on display a little, lets his man get a good look, then he’d recognize him from the tales they tell of him in taverns.

After all, how many hooded, masked, charming bowmen galavant around this forest? Especially one with _blue fletched arrows?_

Here’s a hint: it’s only him. Only the Blue Lion.

And yet not a single flicker of recognition graces the man’s— admittedly beautiful— face.

He sighs and forces a smile. “No matter. I’ll also answer to _my hero_ , if you feel so inclined.” He tries once more for the charm, but he can’t deny the bite in his voice.

The man blinks owlishly, and the scowl seems to melt away. His defensive position slackens as he straightens a little, staring at Lance blankly.

And for a brief moment, Lance thinks that this is it. This is the moment where it’ll sink in, and the man will recognize him. He’ll be impressed and awed, and perhaps even swoon if Lance is lucky—

But then his expression twists into something _incredulous_. “You _shot_ at me.”

It’s angry, sharp, and _offended_ , and it throws Lance off his game enough for him to drop the charm— drop the smile— to twist his head and cross his arms over his chest. Something prickles beneath his skin, heated and restless. This is not how he wanted this to go.

“I didn’t shoot _at_ you. I shot at your _cloak_ ,” he scoffs, lip curling.

“My cloak is _part of me.”_

“It is _not_. It’s your _clothes_. I wasn’t going to _hurt_ you.”

“But you could have. You _shot at me_.”

“I’ll forgive you because you seem to be misinformed, but let me clue you in.”

He stomps up to the man, closing the distance between them in long, strong strides. The huntsman straightens, goes stiff, but he doesn’t back down. Even when Lance gets right up in his face, he holds his ground. They’re the same height, and he meets Lance’s glare unflinchingly, eyes blazing with indignant fire.

Lance hates to admit how much he enjoys that look.

“I. Never. Miss,” he says, punctuating each word by the jab of a finger against the man’s chest. He swats Lance’s hand away and shoves him back with surprising strength. Lance stumbles a few steps before catching himself, lifting his chin. “And I _saved you_ , so a little bit of _gratitude_ would be appreciated.”

It’s the man’s turn to scoff, rolling his eyes as tosses Lance’s arrow to the ground. “You didn’t save me. You _distracted_ me. I know what I’m doing.”

Lance cocks an eyebrow, head lazily lolling to one side as he leans his weight to one hip. “Do you? Because from this angle, it looks like you were about to do something incredibly stupid.”

The look the man gives him is sharp, the intensity behind his eyes near overwhelming. The mere _presence_ of him is a weight on Lance’s chest. He can see why the others who glanced at him looked away quickly after being subjected to that glare.

But Lance isn’t one to back down. He digs his heels in and meets that scowl with one of his own.

The huntsman looks away first. “You don’t know me or what I’m capable of.” He turns, stepping over Lance’s arrow but deliberately close to it— which calms Lance’s irritation a tick. At least this guy— even though he gets his point across— won’t stoop so low as to break his arrow. They’re expensive and difficult to make.

That earns him a few points in his favor.

Not that he has many. Currently his good points only include: his looks, his voice, that fire in his eyes, and his respect to the craftsmanship of arrow.

Not enough points to keep Lance from speaking his mind. “I know you’re being an idiot.”

The man doesn’t even look at him, merely stomps away to another tree, resting a hand on the trunk. He crouches down, half hidden from the retreating boar that can still be seen— though it’s much further away and getting further by the second. “Just leave me alone.”

Lance sees his movement before it happens. Sees the way his hand tenses against the bark. Sees the way the balls of his feet dig in. Sees the shift in his weight— brief stillness— a snake coiled and ready to spring forward—

“Oh, no you don’t.” Lance darts forward, bending low to scoop up his arrow and sliding into a crouch next to him. His arm comes down, slamming his arrow into the earth just overtop the man’s cloak, pinning it to the ground just as he makes to stand—

He grunts as he’s jerked back, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the silence.

He falls back into a crouch, turning to glare at Lance— who meets it head on. Fingers still fisted around the arrow’s shaft, holding it firmly in place.

“What are you _doing?_ ” The man hisses.

“I’m saving your ass, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Just let me _go_.”

Lance shakes his head. “No can do, buttercup.” The man’s lip curls at the nickname, and Lance finds satisfaction in that. “These are _my woods_ , and I’m not about to stand by and watch you get yourself killed.”

“ _Your_ woods?”

Beneath his mask, Lance smirks, letting that brash confidence he’s know for ooze into his voice. Not for the first time, he regrets his choice of wearing a mask to hide his charming smile. Still, Hunk assures him that he makes up for it in his voice and presence.

“Yes, _my woods_. I am the Blue Lion, and my pride runs this forest. The rich can’t pass without being taxed, and we make sure no one else is harmed, either by man or beast. And that _includes_ you. So, nothing personal,” he says nonchalantly, almost tauntingly. “But I don’t want to see your blood spilled in my woods.”

“Wait…” The man’s eyes narrow, lips pursing into a little frown. His gaze flickers over Lance’s face— from his mask, to his eyes, to the hood, down to his clothes and his bow. Something ripples across his face— a spark in his eyes— “I know who you are.” His gaze snaps back to Lance’s, fixing him with that sharp, intense glare. “You’re the Blue Bandit.”

Lance blinks… and then his entire body sags with a groan. He lets go of the arrow, dragging his hand down his face. “Nooo,” he whines. “Gods damn it all— that is _not_ the name I chose! They can never get my name _or_ my picture right. Have you _seen_ the wanted posters? My jaw is not that squared! My nose isn’t that crooked! And don’t get me started on how they draw my hair—“

“I could have you arrested.” The man says, cutting Lance off.

His mouth snaps shut, hands stilling from where they had been gesturing wildly— a frequent byproduct of his tirades. Lance’s eyes narrow as he pouts, feeling his lips press against the mask— and then slowly curl into a smile.

“You could try, but I doubt you could catch me.” It’s a little bit of a bait. A little bit of a boast. A little bit of truth, despite how cocky it sounds. He hasn’t been caught yet, and he’s very good at getting away.

“Leave me be, and I won’t call the guards,” he says, voice stern and confident. He sounds like a man who’s used to getting his way.

But Lance is a man who has learned when people are merely trying to get him to go away, and how to call someone’s bluff.

“Call them, then,” he says with a shrug. Grin widening when the man’s eyes narrow. “Go ahead. Bring them here. With as much racket as they’re making, by the time they hear you and find their way here, both me and that boar will be long gone.”

The man frowns, that hellfire back in his glare as he leans forward, wrapping a hand around the arrow. He stares up at Lance, unblinking— intense— overwhelming— Lance feels another shiver wrack down his spine, hair standing on end as a spike of adrenaline hits his bloodstream. Yet he holds his ground— holds that glare—

“Just _leave me alone_.” The warning is clear. Sharp, heated, and dangerous.

But Lance has never been good at heeding warnings.

He yanks the arrow out of the earth, freeing his cloak. He tosses it aside before standing, turning on his heel and striding away. Headed in the direction the boar had disappeared.

“Hey, stop!” Lance scrambles to his feet.

The man scoffs as he turns, keeping to the tree line as he edges around the clearing. If Lance didn’t know any better, he would say that scoff nearly sounded like a laugh. “What’re you going to do? Shoot me?”

Not a bad idea, really.

He only gets a few more steps before one of Lance’s arrows slices through the air in front of him, sinking into a tree trunk. He freezes, the shaft of the arrows still wavering in the air, mere inches in front of his face.

He turns slowly, eyes narrowed, finding Lance still standing where he had left him. Bow raised. Hand still poised from where he let go of the arrow. He meets that glare with one of his own. He tried to be nice— sort of— and this guy wasn’t getting it through his thick head.

He doesn’t know why he cares. He _shouldn’t_. If this guy wants to get himself killed, then he should let him, but… but it’s too late for Lance to simply walk away. He can’t. Not in good conscious. Not when he knows this idiot is going to run headlong at a northern ridgeback boar merely for the sake of whatever nobleman is paying him.

He won’t let anyone die in his forest. Not while he can help it.

Even if it means knocking the guy out first.

“Yes,” Lance says simply, letting the answer hang heavy in the tense silence. “If that’s what it takes to stop you, then yes. I _will_ shoot you.”

The man says nothing for a long moment. Neither of them move. A breeze rolls through the trees, tugging at their hoods. Distantly, he can hear the faint sound of baying hounds, but this section of the forest is quiet. Peaceful, almost. Were it not for the tension radiating between them. Crackling like static in the air. Buzzing across his skin.

And then… the man smiles. It’s small, but Lance sees it. The little quirk at the corner of his mouth. “You could try,” he says, soft and mocking. Heat surges through Lance. “But I doubt you could catch me.”

And then he’s running.

Taking off through the trees.

Sprinting through the forest like a bat out of hell.

Leaving Lance standing there, mouth agape, frozen in his stupor.

“Hey!” By the time he snaps out of it, the man already has a head start. And Lance could let him go… but he can’t. He already decided to follow this through, and there’s just _something_ about the spark in his eyes. About the challenge. About that _smirk_.

It sets Lance’s blood on fire. Has him charging off after him. He doesn’t give it a second of thought. Suddenly he has something to prove. Something to _win_.

The man is quick, but so is Lance. He grew up in these woods. He knows them better than he knows himself. He’s light on his feet, and his reflexes are sharp. He keeps the man in his sights, and whenever there’s an opening, he pauses, lifts his bow, draws and arrow, and fires.

They never hit him, of course. Lance meant it when he said he doesn’t want this man’s blood spilled in his woods. But he uses the arrows to herd him. To make him change direction. Shooting at trees and at the ground in front of his feet.

It works like a charm, and he smirks. The man no doubt thinks he’s being clever. Being quick. Dodging Lance’s arrows. He has no idea Lance is slowly steering him away from the boar with each and every arrow.

Some come close. Pinning the cloak to a tree just to have it be torn. Several times. Just to keep him on his toes. Just for Lance to _prove_ that he can. That he’s not to be messed with.

An arrow causes him to make a sharp turn, darting through the trees— and Lance grins as he watches him come to a screeching halt. Faced with a wide river with a quick current. He stands there, looking up and down for a way across, but Lance knows he’ll find none.

Lance slows as he approaches, smiling lazily— victoriously— as he drawls. “Looks like you’ve reached a dead end.”

The man glares at him over his shoulder, hood falling away as he whips his head around. A mess of black hair falls to his shoulders, framing his face and offsetting his pale skin. And he… smiles. “That’s what you think.”

Lance tenses. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—“

But he’s turning around, finding a spot on the river, body coiling like he’s about to make a run for it—

Lance drops his bow, sprinting forward to tackle him to the ground before he reaches the river.

They hit the earth hard, breath being knocked out of them both— but Lance doesn’t have time to let it pass. The man is already struggling— fighting against him— and Lance has to wrestle him back down. The man is strong, he’ll give him that. But Lance grew up as the youngest of five, and he knows a thing or two about fighting dirty.

“Get off me!” The man snaps, nearly bucking Lance off as he pins him to the ground.

Lance finds a hold on his wrists, pinning them as he uses his body weight to keep him down, situating himself in a spot where he can ground himself and prevent the man from bucking him off, tangling their legs together so he can’t get leverage on the ground.

“No,” he grunts, jaw clenched. “Not until you agree to _go back to your hunting party.”_

“I’m killing that boar, and you can’t stop me.”

“I can. I am. I _did_. Give it up, buttercup.” But the man keeps struggling, thrashing wildly beneath him. It’s difficult to keep him down, and Lance knows he won’t be able to hold out for long. So he sits up, letting go of his wrists to grab the front of his tunic instead. Fists in the cloth, he lifts him up and then slams him back down— just hard enough to knock the wind out of him and get his attention. “ _Stop being stupid_ ,” he hisses, sharp and frustrated. “That was a _northern ridgeback_. It will _kill you_. And if it doesn’t, then it’s mate _will_.”

“There was only one—“

“And they _always_ travel in pairs. They’re not your average boar. They’re angrier, more violent, and their hide is an armor of it’s own. Taking it on alone is _suicide_ , and providing for the king’s table is _not_ worth your life.”

And finally— _finally_ — the man stills beneath him. The fight leaks out of him slowly, and after a moment, Lance’s grip on him relaxes. But neither of them move. The man is watching him, eyes narrowed and wary. There’s a pinch to his brows and a purse to his lips that Lance can’t read. He doesn’t bother. He merely meets that gaze with a scowl of his own and tries to catch his breath.

None of this went according to plan— not that there was much of a plan to begin with. And they’re so far from the hunting party. Hunk is going to be so worried. He only hopes he’ll be forgiven when he explains the circumstances.

Hunk always forgives him when his impulse decisions save someone’s life.

“What…” The man starts, then stops. Lips twisted up into a frown. He looks… wary. Thoughtful. Cautious, but curious. “What do you know of the king?”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) "He's arrogant and cold. He's given me no proof that he's not exactly like his uncle."_

_**2) "He ignores his people and lets his council run wild. He might be a warrior, but it takes more than a sword to run a kingdom."** _

_3) "I know that a man who stays locked away in his castle isn't worth dying for."_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Lance huffs, a short and breathless scoff as he makes a show of rolling his eyes. He may not know the king personally, but he has a lot of opinions formed simply from observing his reign since defeating his uncle.

There’s a lot he could say, but where to start?

“He ignores his people and lets his council run wild,” he says, irritation itching beneath his skin and lip curling as his voice comes out with a bite. “He might be a warrior, but it takes more than a sword to run a kingdom.”

Beneath him, the man’s eyes narrow. Pretty plump lips twisting into a scowl. He grabs Lance’s wrists, trying to push them away, but Lance’s grip on his tunic tightens. “What’d _you_ know about running a kingdom?” It’s full of venom entirely clear that it’s not meant as a serious question.

But annoyance flares at the dismissal, and Lance will give him a serious answer. “I know more than _you_ , pretty boy.”

The man scoffs. “Yeah, sure, _Blue Bandit_.” He finally manages to push Lance’s hands away and gives a sharp roll of his hips— and holy _fuck_ the power behind those thighs and that body Lance doesn’t get much time to marvel at it before he’s being throw off of him. He lands on the ground beside him with a very _manly_ sound, thank you very much. Absolutely no startled yelps. The man sits up, straightening his tunic and rubbing his wrists as he glares. “I’m sure running _your woods_ is very intricate,” he says dryly, sarcasm dripping from his lips. “But running a kingdom is a _little_ more complicated.” He looks down, brows furrowed as he adjusts one glove, stretching and flexing his fist. He mumbles, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

Lance bristles, propping himself up on one elbow, almost lazily stretched out on the ground next to him. For the moment, at least, he doesn’t seem like a flight risk. “Okay, first of all, I don’t like your tone,” Lance says, holding up a finger. He snaps the second one up. “Second of all, don’t underestimate me or my men. We do far more for the people of this kingdom than the recluse king or whatever nobleman you work for.” He holds up a third finger, wiggling all three. “Third, don’t pretend to know me.”

The man levels him with a flat look and says with little inflection, “You’re a bandit.”

Lance sits up, shifting to lean back on his hands, one knee bent and the other stretched lazily. He gives the man a lopsided smile, eyes lidded as he says, “I’m a very charming and handsome bandit.” The huntsman merely rolls his eyes. “And I’m one with a background that gives me a lot more insight into politics than _you_.”

There’s a curious look in his eyes as he narrows his gaze at Lance. “You don’t… know who I am, do you?”

Lance snorts, lolling his head to one side and lifting a brow. “Why… should I?” His lips curl into a playful smirk at the man’s incredulous look. “Call it even, huntsman. You didn’t know me, and I don’t know you. Even if you’re the most well known huntsman in the entire kingdom, I’ve definitely never seen you before.” He pauses. Lets his gaze roam over the man, from head to toe, and back. He stiffens, and Lance grins. “I definitely would have remembered.”

“Are you…” The man blinks, brows raised and mouth agape. “Are you… _flirting_ with me?”

Lance’s grin widens, and he winks. “Depends… is it working?”

“No.” It’s stern, but a hair too quick.

Still, Lance isn’t sure what to make of that, and he tries to snuff out the burn of disappointment in his gut. Not all men are attracted to men. Unfortunately, in this aspect of life, not every shot hits its mark.

The huntsman clears his throat, looking away. “Point being, I doubt you know more about how to run a kingdom than the king. He was born for it, and he fought for his place.”

Oh, right. That’s what they were talking about. Lance can’t help his snort of amusement, and smirks when the man casts him a glare. “As I said, a sword might win him a crown, but it doesn’t rule a kingdom. He sits back in that castle of his and lets his council call all the shots. Half of that council, might I add, is made up of rich nobles who kissed Zarkon’s ass when he rose to power.”

“He _forced_ them to bend a knee to him,” The man snaps. He looks away, brows pinched and lips pursed. “They didn’t… they didn’t _want_ to give up on their prince. He told them the prince was dead, and he didn’t give them a choice.”

Lance’s smile falls, irritation bristling beneath his skin. “And do you know what that choice was? It was to either kiss his ass, or _die_. He _burned_ the homes of the noble families who opposed him, until only the corrupt and greedy remained.”

“And how would _you_ know—“

“Because I was _one of those families_.”

Silence falls between them. Lance hadn’t meant to shout, but it had come from his throat hot and sharp. The man’s jaw snaps shut, and he stares wide-eyed as Lance glares. Every once of amusement gone from his features. It’s not often that he loses his humor— and Hunk says it’s a scary sight when he does— but this is a touchy subject. One that remains raw and festering more than a decade later.

Birds sing distantly, calling between the trees.

A twig snaps in the forest.

The river bubbles and babbles beside them.

“Oh,” the huntsman breathes.

“Yeah. _Oh_.” Lance says dryly. “Don’t let the glitter and gold fool you. The noblemen who decorate themselves in jewels rarely give a damn about the people they’re supposed to rule. They sit around and get sores on their asses while some of us are out here actually trying to make a difference.”

A rustle of bushes.

A soft whistle of wind through branches.

The soft murmur of leaves.

Lance watches the man’s lips move— pursed, opening, frowning, working like he’s trying to find words that never come. He feels a sense of satisfaction in that. At making this man speechless. At watching him try to figure out how to navigate this new territory. At watching him be thrown so far off balance and realizing just how _wrong_ his assumptions have been.

It’s amusing, to say the least, and Lance can feel a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I… I didn’t know…”

“Of course, you didn’t. I’m sure the noblemen you work for never talk about the noble families they threw to the fires during Zarkon’s reign.” He continues to smile, despite the venom in his voice, despite the bit to his words. He looks away, past the huntsman and into the woods. “They used his paranoia and impulsive brutality to get rid of rival families.”

He hears the horns of the hunting party echoing through the forest, and he tilts his head, trying to determine just how far they are.

Another snap of twigs.

A rustle in the underbrush.

A heavy snort. A grunt and whine. A guttural sound that’s not quite a howl but still sends shivers down Lance’s spine.

He stiffens, eyes snapping to the sound— and his breath catches as he sees not one, but _two_ large shadows moving through the trees. Headed for the river.

“Why didn’t your family come forward when Zarkon was defeated—“

Lance shifts forward quickly, moving up on one knee and getting his other foot under him in a half-crouch. His hand shoots out, slapping his palm over the man’s mouth. He jerks back, but Lance keeps his hand flush to his face. He glances at him only long enough to catch his glare, but puts a finger to his own lips, eyes darting back to the woods over the man’s shoulder.

He can see the outline of the two boars now, their shoulder peaks high and heads bent toward the ground, snuffling and grunting.

“That’s a story for another time,” Lance whispers under his breath. “Right now, we’ve gotta go. Your boar is back, and this time he brought a friend.”

The man stills, eyes widening. Slowly, he pulls back from Lance’s head, turning to follow his gaze. Lance drops his hand, reaching for the bow he had abandoned on the ground. Slinging it over his shoulder, he spares a glance at his companion, relieved when he sees the brief flicker of trepidation.

“You’re not stupid enough to try and attack them _both_ , right?” He whispers, grinning when the man’s gaze snaps back to him with a heavy scowl. It’s sharp. It’s intense. And Lance is sure that a lesser man would cower at the sight of it. Thankfully, Lance is no lesser man. “Thank the heavens,” Lance breathes out with a sigh. He crouches next to the man, grabbing his upper arm and hauling him to his feet. “I was _not_ looking forward to going in after you.”

“I never asked you for your help,” the man grumbles. It sounds like he meant it to be indignant, perhaps even scathing, but it comes out more disgruntled and defeated. He tries to pull his arm from Lance’s grasp, but Lance holds on tight.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a big tough huntsman and not a damsel in distress. We can argue the details of it later.” He’s already pulling the man away, in the opposite direction of the boars and toward the woods. “Right now, let's get out of here before they smell us. They’re _extremely_ territorial, and they might be looking for a new breeding ground—“

The _squeal_ is horrifying. Loud, low, and guttural. _Angry and aggressive_. It starts with one, and then the other joins. The stomping of sharp hooves and the crack of wood as they trash into tree trunks. It sends adrenaline shooting through Lance’s heart, pin pricks in his veins.

“Run.” Lance’s grip on the man’s arm tightens, dragging him the first few steps as he breaks into a sprint. But once he picks up his balance, the man is right beside him. Easily keeping pace. Lance lets go of his arm as the huntsman starts to pull ahead of him, risking a glance over his shoulder—

Only to find both boars charging through the forest after them. Two monstrous and dark shapes, tusks glinting in the light that filters through the trees. Teeth bared and gnarled.

He’s heard horror stories of hunters torn apart by boars.

His heart leaps into his throat, a strangled sound escaping him. Legs burning as he picks up the pace, relieved when the man next to him stays neck and neck.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) Split up and run in opposite directions to split the boars' attention_

**_2) Grab the huntsman and climb up a tree_ **

_3) Pull the huntsman to the side and hide_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

His eyes dart around the forest, adrenaline making his thoughts frantic. But as he’s said before, he _thrives_ on a little danger. Some of his best work comes when the stakes are raised. It keeps him focused and keeps him sharp. And strangely enough, despite the rapid beat of his heart in his throat and the fear pulsing through his veins… he feels steady.

It’s not the first time his life has been in danger, and it won’t be the last.

Because he’s going to survive this, and he’ll make sure the idiot beside him survives, too.

Lance isn’t sure what he’s looking for exactly— anything to get him out of this situation, mind spinning with possibilities as his gaze darts around the forest— but he knows it when he sees it.

And hey, impulsive decisions have kept him alive this long.

“Hey, pretty boy,” he pants, glancing sidelong to catch the man’s quick glare.

“Are you—“ He pauses as he leaps over a fallen log. Lance makes the jump half a second later, and he refuses to admit that he wasn’t nearly as graceful about it. Seriously, why is this guy ridiculously good looking even when running for his life? “Seriously flirting with me right now?”

“It’s only because you haven’t given me your name yet, buttercup.”

“Stop with the nicknames!” He snaps, and Lance relents. But only because they have more important matters at hand.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says instead. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Well, this is a great time to start. Come on!” He grabs the man’s arm, just above the elbow, and quickly changes direction— darting off the path they’ve been taking and into the thick of trees, dragging the man with him.

He’s resistant for a moment, caught off guard and stumbling, momentum slow to shift. But he gets his feet under himself quickly, keeping up with Lance rather than trying to fight it. For that, at least, Lance is grateful. What he’s not grateful for is the venom with which the man says, “What are you doing? You’re going to get us killed!”

“Shut up and trust me,” Lance snaps. “These are _my_ woods, remember?”

“They’re not—“

“Here,” Lance comes to a sudden stop, and uses his grip on the man’s arm to yank him back when his momentum carries him forward. He falls back against Lance’s chest, but Lance is already pushing him forward. Toward a large, sprawling oak.

“What—“

“We’re out of the boar’s sight for now, but it won’t last long. _Go_.”

Thankfully, the man doesn’t argue much. While he doesn’t seem happy about it, he appears to be a man of action. Just as impulsive as Lance. Stubborn, but willing to take direction. He scrambles up the tree with surprising ease, heaving himself up into the branches quickly— just how strong _is he?_

Lance scrambles up after him, and he’s pleasantly surprised when— after the man settles— he braces himself and leans down, offering a hand. They clasp forearms, and the huntsman practically _hauls_ Lance up onto the branch. Lance’s heart skips a beat, but he blames that on the adrenaline. The warm trickle of interest settling in his gut, though? He can’t deny that.

What can he say? He likes a man who can give as good as he gets.

The huntsman courteously waits until Lance is settled onto the branch next to him before griping once more. “Now we’re just stuck up a tree—“

Lance slaps a hand over his mouth, ignoring the glare and following after him to keep up the pressure when he tries to pull away. “ _Shhhh_ ,” Lance hisses, looking down and over his shoulder.

Sure enough, the boars come barreling past a moment later. Both of them freeze, breaths held as they watch the huge creatures sprint past— screeching and howling. He can feel the vibrations of their feet tearing up the earth through the tree. And even after they pass, neither he nor the huntsman move.

The boars return moments later. Slower this time. No longer charging, but snuffling curiously. Noses to the earth as they search. The man beside him startles as one of the boars lifts its head, sniffing the air and looking right up at them.

His eyes dart to Lance, and Lance just gives him a subtle shake of his head, lifting a finger to his own lips.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for the boars to lose interest. It does, however, take them a while to shuffle on. Lazily making their way back through the forest, snouts rooting along the forest floor.

Lance waits until they’re far enough away that he can no longer hear their grunts and squeals that he finally lets his hand drop from the huntsman’s mouth.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he says as soon as Lance pulls away, voice still hushed and brows furrowed as he stares at where the boars had gone. “How did they not see us?”

Lance leans back and shrugs, nonchalant and casual, but he can’t help the smile that curves his lips, relief flooding his veins in a giddy high. “Northern Ridgebacks have great hearing and a keen sense of smell, but their eyesight is terrible.” Lance waves a hand around vaguely, gesturing to the branch they’re sitting on. “Hence, the tree. So…” Lance tilts his head forward, waggling his eyebrows as he smirks. “Do you trust me now?”

The man looks at him then, and slowly— achingly slow, like the rising sun— he smiles, huffing out a sharp exhale that Lance _swears_ is a laugh. “Not a chance.”

“Come on, I saved your life!”

The man leans back against the trunk of the tree, giving Lance a flat look, but unable to hide the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with a half-formed smile. “You also endangered it.”

“I did not!”

“You did so.”

“I did—“

“ _Keith?_ ” Both of them stiffen at the sudden voice, echoing through the forest. “ _Keith!_ ”

He watches the huntsman’s eyes widen. Watches his lips part as his jaw goes slack. Watches something akin to surprise and… panic flicker across his face.

“I’ve—“ He’s already scrambling. Already shifting on the branch, twisting around to begin his climb down. “I have to go.”

“Keith? Is that your name?”

The man doesn’t answer. Already gone from their shared branch, he makes his way haphazardly down the tree. They managed to get a fair distance up— too far for him to simply drop without consequences. Lance watches him make his way down, hurried and barely look at his footholds before shifting his weight. His brows pull together, a small frown on his lips.

Why does that name sound so familiar? He knows he’s heard it before. Not just in passing, but somewhere where it held more weight. More importance. Somewhere like—

He loses his train of thought when he sees the man’s leg stretch out for a rotted branch.“ _Wait!_ ”

He jerks forward, throwing out a hand to signal to the man— Keith?— to stop, but it’s too late. He puts his weight on a rotting branch, and it immediately cracks beneath him.

Lance watches as panic and understanding race across his features. He scrambles to grab something— anything— a branch or another trunk— but he’s already falling— and his cloak catches on branches on the way down, twisting his body and wrapping up in his limbs—

Lance winces as he hits a thick lower branch hard, one arm caught up in his cloak and twisted around in front of him. His chest hits the branch, right over his arm, and the air leaves his lungs in a pained grunt. He tries to wrap his free arm around the branch, but it’s not enough before he slips off, falling backwards—

And landing hard on the ground—

Neck cracked at a terrifying angle as his head hits one of the gnarled thick roots.

“Oh fuck,” Lance breathes, already moving— practically throwing himself off his perch. “Oh fuck. Ooooh, no. No, no, no.” He shimmies down the tree as quickly as he can, taking heed of all the branches below and testing them carefully before letting his weight settle on them.

He grabs the lowest branch and swings himself down, dropping the last few feet before scrambling forward and falling to his knees at the huntsman’s side.

“Come on, man.” He mumbles, hands hovering wildly and uselessly above the still body. His eyes are closed, mouth gone slack. He isn’t moving. “Come on, Keith. Buddy? Please, wake up.”

He knows better than to shake him, but gods _dammit it all_ , he wants to so bad. Instead, he holds a hand over the man’s mouth, watching his chest carefully— and letting out a sigh of relief when he both feels and sees his breath. “Thank the heavens.”

He carefully shifts Keith away from the root, lying him out flat on the ground. He winces when he moves his right arm, certain by the odd angle and purpling that it’s broken. Lance gently feels the back of his head, fingers carding through thick black hair— and coming away with smears of blood.

“That’s not good,” he mumbles. So much for not letting him spill his blood in this forest. “You’ll be okay,” he says, more to himself than the unconscious man. More to steady his shaking hands. He takes a few deep breaths. “I won’t let you die. Okay. Think, McClain. _Think_.”

He needs Hunk. Hunk would know what to do. Hunk _always_ knows what to do in situations like this. He’s patched Lance up more times than he can count. But going to get Hunk would mean leaving Keith alone, like this, unconscious and bleeding in the woods with boars around… and he’s not about to do that.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses under his breath. He doesn’t want to have to use his flare arrow, but he may not have a choice. They’re expensive to make— the materials almost impossible to come by— and Hunk had told him to _only_ use it in times of emergency.

But… this is an emergency, right?

He’s reaching behind him— fingertips brushing along the fletching of his arrows, searching for the right one— when he feels the cold steel of a blade pressed against his neck. Sees it catching the light, glinting beneath his chin.

He freezes, heart hammering and breath caught in his throat as he hears a low voice say, cold and stern, “Hands in the air.” He moves slowly, obeying the command. “Good. Now step away from the king.”

His eyes snap down to the man on the ground— a huntsman who isn’t a huntsman _at all_. The fine embroidery and fabric of his clothes. The clean cut, handsome face. The intense stare and sharp glare that demand to be obeyed… _Keith_.

_That’s_ why he knows that name.

Keith Yorak Kogane. The lost prince. The true heir of the Marmoran bloodline. The Warrior King. The True Dragonheart.

Bloodied and unconscious at Lance’s feet.

The air stilled in Lance’s lungs finally escapes, rattling across his vocal cords in a low groan as his eyes slip shut.

Hunk is going to kill him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Lance has been arrested. No big deal, right? He's gotten caught plenty of times, and the Blue Lion always manages a daring escape. Except... this is the royal castle. And he's under arrest for suspicion of harming the king (which, by the way, he's still struggling to comprehend that the cute huntsman he flirted with is actually _King Keith_ ). 
> 
> So... needless to say, things might get a _little_ more complicated. But hopefully he can charm his way out of this one... and maybe pick up some trinkets and gold on the way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been so much fun to write. So many possibilities. So many ways things could have gone. So many dominos set in motion for later down the line. What secrets are uncovered and what remains hidden to the reader? 
> 
> Anything is possible six feet under the stars.
> 
> Happy reading <33

Lance has been in his fair share of prisons in his lifetime— hazard of being the Blue Lion, unfortunately— so he’ll be honest.

This one isn’t nearly as bad as he anticipated.

Sure, he’s still in a _prison_ , and it’s not just any prison, but one in the _royal castle._

But, you know… as far as prisons go, he’s living in luxury.

He expected the dungeon, with the smell of damp, mildew, and piss. Perhaps a chill in the air that seeped down to his core. But the walls are dry as bone. The flagstones are cold, but most of the floor is covered by a rug. It’s old, tattered, and smells like dust, but it’s far cleaner than the bed of rotting hay he had expected.

The bed is simple, but sturdy, with a stuffed mattress that’s lumpy, but not altogether uncomfortable. The sheets are stiff and stained, but again, better than expected. There’s even a table and a chair, with a small stack of ratty old books that have definitely seen better days. He even has a chamberpot instead of a simple damp corner.

The window is barred and high up on the ceiling, which he finds he can see through if he stands on the chair, giving him a view of the western woods. It lets in a breeze that’s pleasant and refreshing, but will no doubt get colder at night. The shutters attached to the window for him to close don’t look particularly air tight.

The door is solid oak, with a small opening that’s currently shuttered closed from the other side.

He expected the dungeon, but instead he had been given a tower cell. Which, if he’s not mistaken, are usually reserved for a higher class of criminal. Detaining nobles, merchants, and foreign dignitaries suspected of crimes.

Really, what an honor.

He’s pretty sure he talked his way into Sir Shirogane’s good graces, as he is wont to do. A silver tongue— that’s what his parents always say. Or, as his siblings prefer to call it: a head for spinning pig shit. Either way, some quick wit— and a lot of panic— helped him ramble his way out of immediate beheading.

He had been tied up and held at sword point while Sir Shirogane called for help. Nearly the whole damn hunting party had descended on them, and no doubt would have crowded Keith— _King Keith_ — if it hadn’t been for Shirogane barking orders.

Lance had been dragged to the wayside, set up with guards as healers fell around the king.

Only when it was clear he would survive did Shirogane approach him and demand his story.

And he told it— more or less.

He said that he had been hunting in the woods (a small lie) when he had stumbled upon a man who was about to take on a northern ridgeback by himself (a big truth). He said that he hadn’t realized the man was the king (he’s still digesting that one), and he had tried to stop the man, but he had been incredibly stubborn (Shirogane had sighed and shaken his head at that one).

He said the injuries were from the huntsman— the _king_ , he amended, wide-eyed and frantic— falling out of the tree in his haste.

He hadn’t meant him any harm— a truth he can’t emphasize enough.

Sir Shirogane seemed to believe him, listening to Lance with an air of patience, understanding, and kindness. But still, he was skeptical and wary— reasonable, Lance supposes. Especially once Shiro took in his outfit and his bow and his blue fletched arrows… it hadn’t taken him nearly as long to pin-point Lance as the Blue _Lion_ — not _Bandit_ , thank you very much.

Point is, despite Lance’s story, Shirogane was hesitant to let him go free. Not only was he a known wanted criminal— something the hunting party was starting to realize, as whispers starting surging around the gathered crowd— but Keith wasn’t conscious to confirm that Lance had, in fact, _saved_ _him_.

Sir Shirogane had stared at him long and hard, steely eyes picking Lance apart piece by piece, coming to conclusions that Lance wasn’t privy to. He shrunk beneath that gaze, awaiting his judgement. And for a moment— just a brief second— Shirogane’s expression softened, and Lance though that perhaps he recognized him— _remembered_ him— and his chest had constricted with nervous hope—

But then that moment passed, and he was once more the steely-eyed commander of the royal guard, snapping out sharp orders.

He had decided Lance would be taken to the castle to await the king’s judgement upon his recovery. There was almost a flicker of apology in his gaze as he commanded that Lance be stripped of his weapons and bound, but he _did_ order them not to gag him and to treat him kindly. After all, as far as they knew, he had saved the king.

(Which he totally did, but he gets why they can’t trust him at his word.)

So he supposes he has both his quick mouth and Sir Shirogane’s kindness to thank for his comfortable tower cell.

Still, he’s not a fool, nor an idiot. He knows that even though he’s in this nice cell, he’s far from home free. He’s not just an innocent huntsman who got caught up in royal affairs. He’s not a simple townsfolk who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He has crimes under his belt. He’s got a bounty on his head. He’s the bane of the town guard, and he knows there are many nobles out there who would love to see his head on a pike.

Even if he isn’t tried for injuring the king, he can sure as hell be tried for everything else.

He’s gotten out of many, many sticky situations in his time. And he’s broken out of several prisons. But this is the _royal_ _castle_. And unfortunately, he’s gonna need Keith’s pardon to get out of this one.

That… or a little bit of help from Hunk.

Seeing as his guards were told to treat him kindly as they escorted him back to the castle, he had a little leeway. A little wiggle room. And he wasn’t gagged, so his mouth made an easy distraction. Chatting with the guards while he scraped markings into trees and leaving a message for Hunk when they turned around to let him pee.

Wouldn’t be the first time Hunk had to break him out of a situation he’d gotten himself into. Would be the first time Hunk broke him out of the royal castle, but you know, first time for everything, right?

All he has to do is wait…

* * *

Turns out, waiting is _boring_.

Not that it’s a particularly new revelation, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. He hadn’t had much on him at the time of his informal arrest, but they took what he did have. Leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back.

He does, eventually, resort to flipping through the books, but they’re dry and dull, and the only source of light starts to fade too much for him to care to continue.

They bring him food at some point. The servant steps in to set it on the floor before hastily retreating. The food is simple and under-seasoned, but he’s definitely had worse at local taverns.

He keeps the simple wooden spoon and knife in hand as he lounges on the bed, using them to tap out rhythms as he hums along.

That night, he doesn’t bother closing the shutters on the window, leaving them wide open to filter in the moonlight. He hunkers down and wraps up in the blankets provided, content to stare at what he can of the stars before sleep takes him.

* * *

He doesn’t see the king until the next day, after his afternoon meal.

He’s startled when the door opens with little preamble— none of the opening of the small shutters and peeking in before hand. No, there’s the heavy tumble of the lock, and then the heavy oak door swings open.

The second he sees that familiar mop of dark hair, Lance scrambles to sit up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he turns to face Keith.

He looks—

He looks… good.

And a hell of a lot more intimidating.

Gone are the simple yet elegant huntsman threads, replaced by something much more deserving of his station. Yet… there’s a simplicity to it. The material is rich, and the colors are dyed black, maroon, and deep violet, but the cut is far less extravagant than Lance would have expected from a king. No poofy sleeves. No extra material. No extra layers. And it’s overlaid with fitted leather armor in a way that’s both aesthetically pleasing and practical.

He dresses fashionably… but comfortably and purposefully. Combining elegance and functionality. Beauty and rough simplicity. Something fit for royalty, yet echoing his humble upbringing.

He’s all sharp cut features and soft, pale skin. Smooth cheeks, but a rugged scar slashing up from his jaw. Thick brows pulled together, shadowing dark, somber eyes that are narrowed and sharp— intense— overwhelming. Full, pretty lips permanently pursed into a firm scowl. Soft dark hair, windswept and wild. Untamed and yet dashing all the same.

His right arm lies across his chest in a sling, but even that is made of a matching velvet material that blends in with his outfit. But even the clear injury takes nothing away from his beauty or his ferocity.

 _Like a warrior king_.

And now, knowing that his handsome huntsman is no less than the lost prince turned warrior king himself, Lance can… _reluctantly_ admit that perhaps— _objectively_ — he’s just as handsome, rugged, and wild as the rumors say.

He stands in the doorway, filling it up with his wide shoulders and commanding presence.

When his gaze finds Lance’s, narrowing on him and looking him up and down with scrutiny, scowl deepening, Lance feels his first shiver of real fear. The cold surge of doubt and nervousness as he realizes that this is no longer the stubborn, petulant, and down right bratty man he met in the woods. They may look similar, but here and now— in a new outfit, in new scenery, in a new context— Lance realizes this…

This is the _king_. A man who clawed his way up from nothing to reclaim his birthright. A man who had slain his uncle. The true heir of the dragonheart bloodline. A man who could have him beheaded in a heartbeat, but would probably do him the honor of running him through himself.

Lance swallows hard.

“Your majesty—“

Keith’s eyes finally leave his— allowing Lance to release a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Keith turns, turning that sharp scowl to the hallway behind him. “Stay out here, Shiro.”

“I really must insist that I be in the room—“

“I’ll be fine. I’ll call for you if I need you, but I won’t.” And with that, he steps into the small cell and closes the door behind him, letting it echo in the stunned silence.

Lance feels like he’s reeling. Head spinning. Still shaken from being under that scrutinizing glare and trying process all of… _this_. But distantly, he realizes that Keith calls Sir Shirogane simply _Shiro_. And that, while his tone had been commanding and firm, there had been a more… familiar edge to it. A stubborn sort of exasperation that reminds Lance of the man he met in the woods.

And when he turns back to the room, his jaw is set in such a way that isn’t too far from a scowl— and Lance has no doubt that most would read it as such and flee from it— but _definitely_ looks more like the echos of a pout when he looks more closely.

 _Especially_ when the sigh he heaves sounds more like a huff.

Keith stares at him for a long moment, and Lance stares back. He’s not sure what expression he’s sporting, but he’d guess it’s somewhere in the field of blank surprise and uncertainty.

And the longer the staring continues, the more fidgety Keith gets. It’s subtle. Just a shifting of his weight from leg to leg. The rubbing of the fingers of his left hand against his thumb. The way his foot shifts and his boots scrape loudly against the flagstones just off the edge of the rug in the silence.

He glares down at his boot like it personally offended him.

For an intimidating warrior king who has the people enthralled and mystified by his ruthlessness and fierce stare… Keith is… kind of… awkward?

And it’s this new revelation that has a smirk tugging at the edge of Lance’s lips. Confidence trickling back in slowly. He relaxes his shoulders and lolls his head to the side.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

**_1)_ ** **_Playful but nervous — “So… king, huh? Gotta admit, I didn’t see that one coming.”_ **

_2)_ _Sassy and with a bow — "The king has finally found time to visit little ol' me. And here I thought you'd leave me to the gallows."_

_3)_ _Light-hearted but awkward — “You took a pretty nasty fall, your majesty. It’s good to see you up and about again.”_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“So…” He drawls, setting his hands behind him on the bed, leaning back and casually stretching his legs out in front of him. “King, huh? Gotta admit, I didn’t see that coming.”

Keith looks up at him through his lashes, eyes still narrowed into a glare and lips still pressed into a frown. For just a moment, Lance feels the prickling chill of fear— only for it to dissolve as the king huffs, a short breath escaping his lips as his eyes roll his gaze off to the side.

It’s dismissive. Indifferent. Everything Lance has come to expect from nobility— or in this case, royalty. And yet somehow— miraculously, really— it softens his intimidation factor. Lance doesn’t quite get it, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He doesn’t say anything, but he does move further into the room. Shuffling on over to the little table. He doesn’t bother with the chair. Just leans against the table, left arm folding over his slung-up right arm, loosely crossing them both over his chest.

Lance isn’t sure if the choice to remain standing is to subtly hold his status and power over him, or if it’s just to allow him to bolt faster if this conversation goes sideways.

And there he stands, staring down at Lance’s position on the bed. Lips pursed tight. Brow hanging heavy over those scrutinizing eyes. Lance wants to compare him to a skittish deer, and yet he gets the distinct impression that he’s being stared down by a wolf.

Definitely the strong silent type then.

He’s clearly _here_ for a reason. Wouldn’t have come in alone and settled himself comfortably and casually against the table otherwise. He’s here to talk to Lance, but it becomes apparent very quickly that Lance is the one who’s going to have to carry this conversation.

So he goes with the question foremost on his mind. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gets a one-shouldered shrug and absolutely no expression change. “You didn’t ask.”

It’s so casual, so indifferent, that Lance snorts a short, derisive huff, voice dripping in sarcasm as he says, “I don’t exactly make it a habit to go around asking every man I meet if he’s the king—“ Then he pauses, head tilting to the side, gaze turned to the wall behind the king and idly drifting upward as he thinks… And a sly grin slowly tugs at his lips. “Actually, I might have used that line once. On a pretty man in a tavern.”

Lance has the immense pleasure of watching the king’s face scrunch in confusion, and then ease into shock. A pretty flush crawls up his neck to settle on those delightfully high cheekbones. “That— that _worked_?” He sputters, incredulous.

Oh, just wait until he gets to brag that he made the king flustered and scandalized.

Lance shoots him a wink and a cocky smirk, loving the way the king’s upper lip curls. “Of course, it did. You have quite a reputation, your majesty. Men are quite flattered to be compared.”

Keith scoffs, a roll of his eyes snapping his gaze firmly away, glaring at the open window in Lance’s lonely cell.

And when met once again with the firm— and quite frankly, _awkward_ — silence, Lance is once more forced to chip through the ice.

“Sooo… You didn’t think it was important?” When the king glances at him out of the corner of his eyes, one brow raised, Lance clarifies, “To mention that you’re the king? When we met in the woods and I _clearly_ had no idea.”

At that, the king shifts, adjusting his feet and perch against the table. The fingers of his left hand pick at the sling they rest atop of. “I’m not used to… explaining that. All my life, everyone has just known.”

“Sorry I’m not everyone.” He keeps his tone light and teasing, but as he’s met with the king’s glare once more, Lance huffs. “Really, though. You can’t blame me for not realizing. In fact, I’m willing to bet that nearly anyone in my position wouldn’t have known either. You don’t exactly leave the castle. You don’t make public appearances. The most your people know of you is based on rumors.”

He thinks he sees the king grimace at that, but he plows on ahead.

“Maybe I would have known if you had been wearing anything remotely _kingly_ , but you were dressed as an ordinary huntsman.” He pauses, lips twisting as he waves a hand in the air. “Well, a _rich_ huntsman, but still a huntsman.”

“It’s easier to hunt that way,” the king grumbles, and _there_. There’s a glimpse of the petulant and down right grumpy man he met in the woods. “You can’t do anything with all the silks, and layers, and jewelry. It’s impossible to hunt in a _crown_.”

It occurs to Lance then, that even now, in his own castle, dressed the part of king, Keith isn’t wearing a crown.

“The crown would have definitely made your identity clear, but no arguments there. Not that the nobility really _cares_ about that. As far as I’ve seen, none of them ever get off their horses. Except you…” Leaning back, he rolls his head to rest on his shoulder, eyeing Keith curiously. “You went off on your own… why?”

And finally Lance gets to watch the king’s mask of indifference not just crack, but shatter.

The foundations of his expression remain the same— furrowed brows and narrowed eyes— but there’s a _shift_ to it. A crinkling of his nose. A grimace curling his soft, pretty lips. A disgust in his eyes that isn’t directed at _Lance_ , but at the topic itself.

“You can’t hunt in a party like that,” he says, so incredibly _frustrated_ and _bitter_. It’s a bite on his tongue and a passion burning like embers beneath his words. “They _insist_ on it, but it’s all for show. They were clearly going to scare off every living thing for miles. I _told_ Shiro that, but he said the council _insisted_.” He scoffs, a sharp huff that has his head rolling with his eyes. “The only way we were going to catch _anything_ for the feast was if I went off on my own.”

“Seems like a kind of dangerous and foolhardy thing to do,” Lance jabs, getting a pleasant thrill— a strange mix of fear and exhilaration— at the king’s sharp look.

“I can handle myself.”

“Sure you can, warrior king.” Lance gives his sling a very pointed look and watches the man stiffen. And just like that, the tension in the room shifts once again. Where it had had been softening into something amiable, it starts to harden— crystalizing once again as Lance is reminded that he’s not shooting the breeze with a man in a tavern or one of his men.

This is the _king_. A king who rose from nothing, but a king nonetheless.

A man who could have him beheaded without question. A man who could have him hung or left to rot in the dungeon. A man who holds his entire fate in his hands, and so Lance should probably reign his tongue in a little more if he wants to raise his chances of survival, but—

It’s just so easy to fall into bad habits with Keith. Far too easy to feel at ease enough to poke and prod.

Or maybe his siblings are right and he simply has no sense of self preservation and no control over his mouth.

Still, if he can talk his way into a hole, he sure as fuck can talk his way out of it. So he takes a breath, lowers his voice, and eases into the thick, permeating silence. “How is your arm?” He gives another pointed look at the sling, softer this time.

“It’s fine…” Keith says gruffly. He shifts, allowing the velvet cape draped over his shoulders to fall over one arm, better hiding the sling. Amidst all the dark colors and embroidered fabrics, it’s nearly hidden. If he didn’t know any better, it would simply look like the king were merely crossing his arms.

But he does know better. He was there for the injury, and he’s seen the sling.

He… was there for the injury. _He’s_ the one who practically pushed Keith up that tree in the first place. And _yeah_ , it had been to save him from the boars, but…

“Are you okay?” Keith’s voice sounds distant, reaching him but muted through his daze. Sounding concerned and uncertain. Definitely confused.

“Yeah,” Lance says with a laugh. He blinks, vision coming to focus on the tattered, dusty rug. When had he looked down at that? “Just _peachy_ , your majesty.” He looks up, his lopsided smile feeling strained. “It’s just finally sinking in that I _shot arrows_ at the king.”

The information is nothing new— he lived it, after all. But the _weight_ of it starts to sink in.

The implications… the repercussions… If he doesn’t do anything— if Hunk can’t get him out— He’s not _scared_ , per se. But he can recognize a shit-storm when he sees one.

“Mind you, I wouldn’t have hit you, but I _threatened_ to— holy heavens, I _threatened_ the king. And ordered you around. And yelled at you— I _tackled_ you to the ground— oh my gods, my mama is going to kill me. _Hunk_ is going to kill me.”

He groans, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands.

“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” He mumbles. Then, with a soft, half-hearted chuckle, “Royally fucked.”

“You’re not— I don’t—“ Keith starts, abruptly cutting himself off.

When Lance glances up, he sees the king’s face twisted, lips working like he’s trying to find words. It’s cute, really. Amusing. Watching a _king_ flounder, clearly wrestling with what to say. Seriously, how did this guy get the reputation he has?

Eventually, Keith huffs, the sound full of frustration. He reaches up to run the fingers of his left hand through his hair before the arm falls back down over the sling. “You’re not fucked,” he grumbles. “Only you and I know what happened in those woods, and they have to believe my word.”

Well, good to know he’s got the king on his side. But still…

“With all due respect, your majesty,” Lance says flatly. “I’m the _Blue Bandit_.” He says it mockingly, lip curling with distaste. Okay, _sure_ , the name rolls off the tongue with the alliteration and all. But the point was he didn’t want to be known as a _bandit_. “Even if you clear me of any charges that happened _yesterday_ , I still have several _years_ worth of crimes under my belt.”

“I can pardon you.” It’s stubborn, and so, so naive. Bless his little royal heart.

While Lance _could_ let him do just that... the king doesn’t seem to know the first thing about politics. And honestly? _Fuck_ Lance’s own golden heart for being unable to take advantage of that. Perhaps if Keith had been rude or dismissive or unkind… but he had been none of those things. Hot-headed, reckless, stubborn, and ignorant, maybe. But not unkind.

Silver tongue. Heart of gold. Lance deserves a goddamn medal.

He sighs, cocking a weary grin as he lifts his head, letting his hands drop to hang between his widespread thighs. “As much as I’d love to take advantage of that gracious offer, your majesty, how do you think it’ll look when the king pardons a well known wanted criminal? Letting him go free to run back into his woods— yes, shut up, they’re _my_ woods— only to continue his rampant crime spree, stealing from his most loyal noblemen right under his nose?”

Keith’s expression goes sour, and Lance chuckles.

“Didn’t quite think of it that way, did you?”

“There must be a way… Saving the king’s life should warrant a clean slate—“

“Which I’ll only soil the moment I get out of there.”

Keith gives him a flat look. A worn out stare that’s more exasperated and unamused than it is sharp or angry. “Is that really something you should be admitting to me?”

Lance feels his smile twitch into something a hair more genuine, lazy amusement hedging into his voice. “No, probably not.”

“And yet you’re telling me this… to what? Save my reputation as king?”

Lance shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” He cocks a charming grin. One that he _knows_ has worked on men and women in the past. “I may be a _bandit_ , but I’m not a bad guy.”

The king grunts, muttering something under his breath and turning away. Lance hopes he’s not imagining the tinge of red coloring the tip of his ear.

“May I be frank, your majesty?”

Keith quirks a brow, tilting his head to give Lance a deadpan, sidelong stare. “Have you been anything but?”

He’s got a point there. Lance makes a flippant gesture, waving a hand idly in the air as he shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head about me.” He gets a scowl for that, but casually ignores it. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“… Do you?”

“Not to brag—“

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to brag?”

“But yes, I always do. I have a bit of a reputation for getting myself out of as many situations as I get myself into. This isn’t the first prison cell I’ve seen, and I doubt it’ll be my last.”

Keith lifts a brow, but this time there’s the shadow of a smile ghosting at the edges of his lips. “Again, is this really something you should be telling me?”

Lance’s grin is wide and unabashed. “No, probably not.”

Another huff of air, but this one sounding suspiciously more like a laugh. Keith pushes off the table, standing once more. He turns his back on Lance. There’s a shift in movement, but Lance can’t tell if he’s reaching for something or adjusting his clothes or his sling. Perhaps he has an itch, or needs to adjust his _family_ _jewels_.

(Lance will firmly not admit to the tiny spark of fear he feels when he briefly imagines Keith reaching for a sword to kill him right here and now.)

“Well, if you’re so good at escaping, then no one would be surprised if you managed it again.” His voice is carefully neutral. Casually indifferent. Suspiciously aloof.

He then sets something on the table. A soft bundle of leather, small enough to easily clasp with his hand. He puts it down gently, fingers lingering as he steps away.

In a few long strides, he’s at the door, but he pauses with his fist raised to knock.

And softly, so lowly that Lance nearly misses it, the king says, “Thank you…”

“For what…?”

His head turns, glancing at Lance out of the corner of his eye. His hard look— something Lance is coming to suspect is his default— softens as he smiles. Slow and small, but genuine. “For still treating me like the huntsman you met in the woods.”

And then he raps his knuckles on the door, and a moment later it opens. He slips out into the hall, speaking with Sir Shirogane in low, hushed tones that are muffled as the heavy oak door swings shut once more.

But Lance’s ears are left ringing, heat surging up the back of his neck to prickle at their tips.

But… _wow_. Okay. Not the time nor place for _that_. Not now. Now ever. Time to stomp out that thought before it has a chance to become little more than an inkling trying to sprout.

Time to focus on the matter at hand: getting out of here.

He gets to his feet, moving to the table to see what the king left. The bundled leather is soft and worn, well-loved and old. He pulls loose the tie and unravels it— only to find lock picks inside.

Nothing fancy. None of them polished or gleaming. Standard metal. Old. Chipped. Worn. But well made. Well cared for. Not the lock picks he’d expect a king to have— if a king were to have lock picks at all— but ones that are strangely familiar…

But whatever familiarity itches at the back of his mind dissipates like smoke whenever he tries to grasp it. A memory not quite formed. Only half remembered. Perhaps not even a memory at all, but just that: a familiarity. Because they look a hell of a lot like all the other lock picks he’s used over the years.

And the king had given them to him. A gift. A chance. A thank you.

 _Permission_.

He grins, a surprised laugh bubbling out of him. Hunk is never going to believe this.

* * *

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1)_ _Break out soon — before the festivities begins_

_2)_ _Break out after they bring his evening meal — during the dinner feast_

**_3) Break out after nightfall — after the dinner when people are socializing in the ballroom_ **

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

* * *

Getting the hell out of this tower is his top priority, but he hasn’t made it this long— and gotten out of so many tricky situations— by being wholly rash. Impulsive? Maybe. He prefers _instinctual_. Going with his gut. But still, he’s perfectly capable of sitting back, biding his time, and waiting for just the right moment.

Now, when _is_ the right moment? He can’t be sure. But he’s weighed his options, and he’s decided that waiting until nightfall probably holds the best chance of successfully escaping.

If he leaves too soon, the castle might still be crawling with people preparing for the festivities. Breaking out during the feast might work, what with everyone being busy shoveling food in their mouths, plastering on fake smiles, and kissing ass.

But if he waits just a _little_ longer after that, for full night fall, the ball will have begun, and everyone will hopefully be even _more_ distracted with wine, dancing, and more ass kissing.

He has the tools for escape, he has a time, and he has a plan. All of which, thankfully, make the waiting game a little easier to bear. Not by much, admittedly, but it helps.

He passes the first couple hours lounging on the bed, staring at the ceiling and watching the sun shining through the window shift across the wall. He runs over his little conversation with the king. Over and over again. Trying to parse through the tangled knot of shit he feels about it.

He had some pretty staunch opinions on the king before, and now that he’s met the guy under some unconventional circumstances… well, he’s got new opinions forming, and the two sides are clashing something fierce. Rattling up his mind and leaving his poor heart to deal with the aftershocks.

Because his idea of the king and his impressions of Keith are two vastly different men.

Both of them inhabiting one _very_ attractive body.

And look, Lance is _bold_ , but he’s not _that_ fucking bold. That’s one _very_ off limits body.

But still, he’s caught up reconciling the two impressions he has of King Keith. One hard, wild, sharp, and fierce. One soft, stubborn, awkward, and petulant. Doesn’t help that Keith seems to flip between the two quickly and seamlessly. And quite honestly? Trying to fit them together into one mould is giving him a headache.

Because no matter how Keith might seem _now_ , the fact remains that he hasn’t done a damn thing to help his people since becoming King. His actions speak a hell of a lot louder than a stray, awkward smile that makes Lance’s heart skip.

When he gets tired of his heart rate making him feel dizzy and his twisting stomach making him feel nauseous, he shakes his head to clear the thoughts and sets to pacing. It isn’t easy in this tiny cell, but he makes do. Paces back and forth and fiddles with his stolen wooden spoon and knife, flipping and spinning them between the fingers on both hands.

“Duel wielding cutlery in the royal tower itself,” he muses with a small smile. “If only mama could see me now.”

To keep his thoughts at bay, he hums to himself, singing softly under his breath. Songs his father used to sing while working the fields. Songs his mother used to sing when tending to the house. Songs he and his siblings used to echo while tilling the soil and feeding the animals.

Songs his little pride sings while gathered around a campfire in the western woods, celebrating a job well done.

As the bright light of afternoon fades to the dull orange of evening, his attention moves to the window of his cell. With the chair propped up beneath it, he can just reach it while standing. He crosses his arms on the small, stone sill and rests his chin atop them. He can’t see everything from this angle and this high up, but he can hear it.

The rattle of carriages rolling up the elaborate stone drive of the castle. Horses whinnying as their hooves paw at the cobblestones. Voices, too distant for words, as nobles are greeted at arrival. Rumor has it that there would be several nobles arriving from neighboring kingdoms to help celebrate King Keith’s one year anniversary. Perhaps even royals, such as the elusive King Lotor of Galra and illustrious Queen Allura of Altea.

He idly wonders if any of these foreign dignitaries _want_ to be here, or if it’s all merely for _presentation_.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, Lance wonders if there might have been a time where he would have arrived to a ball such as this, in a carriage decorated in gold, dressed in silks fitted specifically to his body. In a time where Zarkon never assassinated Queen Krolia, and Keith grew up as any other prince.

He wonders if they would have known each other.

If they might have been friends.

How different they both might be had the war not uprooted both their lives and left their kingdom in upheaval for seventeen years.

When his evening meal arrives, it’s little more than haphazard leftovers from lunch. Clearly feeding the prisoners had been an afterthought compared to the feast they’re preparing. He can’t blame them much for that, and it’s still better than some of the things he’s eaten in his lifetime.

In fact, he’s grateful for the blandness of it. It’s easier to eat when he has anticipation twisting his stomach in knots. Making him feel restless and ill at ease.

He sits on the edge of the bed, leg bouncing incessantly. He fiddles with his clothes, trying not to overthink his plan. The plan is quite simple, really. Overly simple, if he’s being honest. The plan? Escape.

He knows from experience that if he plans too much, he’ll overthink it. He’ll stumble the moment shit doesn’t go the way he thought it would. Thankfully, he has enough experience to merely… wing it. To fly by the seat of his pants and trust his instincts and impulsive gut feelings to carry him through.

It’s gotten him this far, and he sees no reason to stop trusting himself now.

So he picks at his pants, brushing off specks of dirt that don’t exist. Adjusts his boots, making sure the laces are tight and secure. He fiddles with his shirt, picking and tugging at it until it lays _just_ _right_. Until it’s tucked in _just_ _right_.

While they had taken all his possessions, they had left him with his cloak. A simple thing, meant more for blending into the forest and shadows than a castle. But it’s comfortable, and it provides a sense of security that keeps him grounded and confident. He adjusts it on his shoulders, letting it fall just right to obscure but not hamper.

A finger tucks into the tight fabric hanging around his neck. They had left him with that, too. If he pulls it up, it fits snug over his nose and cheeks. His signature Blue Lion mask, though it’s little more than a dark swath of cloth.

He debates using both his hood and mask during his escape, but ultimately decides against it. While the disguise works to his advantage in the forest and in towns, he thinks it would be overkill here. After all, a hooded, masked man slinking through the castle? Instant suspicion. As long as he moves like he belongs here, people will probably just assume he’s a servant.

Or a huntsman. There’s some irony in that somewhere.

He patiently— restlessly— waits a couple hours after his evening meal arrives, watching the way the setting sun goes from painting his cell in colors of flame to casting it into shadow.

“Showtime,” he mumbles, rising from the bed and striding to the door. He falls to one knee in front of it, running his fingers over the metal lock. He hums thoughtfully. “Seems simple enough.”

He pulls out the bundle Keith had left, unravelling the leather across his thigh. The tools are all well organized, slipped snuggly into their own individual pockets. Just like he likes it. Keith has good taste.

His fingers dance along the metal, feeling out the shapes in the deepening darkness. He pulls a couple out, holding them out and squinting to make sure they’re the right ones. They feel good in his hands. Familiar the same way a bow does. His brother Marco taught him how to pick locks when he was twelve, and a door has never been an obstacle since.

He takes a moment to press his ear to the crack of the door, breath held as he listens.

No movement right outside. Good. He doubts the tower cells are unguarded, but they’re probably stationed down below. Something he’ll definitely have to deal with, but first obstacle first.

He makes fairly quick work of the lock, moving on muscle memory, listening to the clicks and tumbles while paying close attention to any resistance the tools feel.

He holds his breath, eyes closing as he presses an ear to the door. “Come on, baby…” _Click_. “Gotcha.”

He pulls the picks out quickly, sliding them back into their little pockets and rolling up the bundle. He hooks it into one of the pouches on his belt. A damn near perfect fit. Once that’s secure, he reaches for the door, standing slowly as he opens it gently.

Just enough to peek. To listen… and then slip out into the hall.

He closes the door behind him, just in case. He doesn’t need anyone coming by on their rounds to find something immediately amiss. Gotta give himself the best head start that he can.

There’s not much in the tower. Just a couple cell doors and stairs that spiral both up and down. He heads down them quickly, but carefully, one hand to the wall and feet as silent as they can be against the stone steps. He treads carefully. Doesn’t really want to make his grand escape by tripping on uneven steps.

He only gets one and a half floors down before he hears someone rushing up. Feet quick on stone, heavy and urgent. Hard panting. Things bouncing with every step—

Lance freezes, breath caught in his throat and adrenaline surging through his veins. Out of reflex, he reaches for his bow, only to stall out and reach for his boot— only to remember they took his knife, too.

Cursing under his breath, he pushes up against the inner wall of the spiraling staircase, crouched low and ready, hand reaching for his belt— for where he tucked in his stolen utensils—

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow… settling… steadying… body coiled and tight…

The person comes hurtling recklessly up the stairs, and Lance jumps into action the moment they’re visible— catching them off-guard, confused momentarily by a strangely familiar strangled yelp— both of them stumbling down a few steps as Lance shoves their back against the outer wall of the staircase— the things the man had been carrying clatter to the stone, tumbling down a couple steps—

Lance blinks, and his best friend blinks back. Both of them frozen in place, poised and pressed up against the wall with precarious balance that just nearly keeps them from a nasty tumble downward.

“ _Hunk_?”

“Lance!”

Lance steps away, pulling the utensil he had been holding away from his friend’s neck. He doesn’t go far though, he stays right in his space to hiss in a harsh whisper, “What are you _doing_? I could have killed you!”

Hunk blinks. His surprise and fear had faded quickly into a pleased grin, but now shift into something more muddled in confusion. He looks to where Lance brandishes his utensil, pointing it at him threateningly. One brow rises. “With… a wooden spoon?”

Lance pauses, eyes darting to his own hand. “Huh… thought I had grabbed the knife.”

“Wait,” Hunk lunges forward, grabbing Lance’s upper arms and giving him a tight little shake. “What are _you_ doing here?” His brows furrow. “Shouldn’t you be like… locked in a room?”

Lance cocks a smug grin, gently removing Hunk’s hands and twirling the spoon between his fingers. “Hunk, buddy, my best friend in the whole wide world… have you _ever_ known me to stay locked in a cell?”

“Well… _no_ , but…” He waves a hand around. “This is the _royal_ _castle_. I figured you would need some help. I saw you get arrested in the woods, and I saw your messages when I followed.”

“Ah, so you got those.”

“Of course, I did,” Hunk scoffs lightly, rolling his eyes as he bends down to pick up the things he dropped. He gives Lance a firm look over his shoulder, pointing a threatening finger at him. “And _don’t_ think you’re going to get out of this so easily. When we get back, I expect the full story of how you got _arrested_ by the royal procession after I told you to _be_ _careful_.”

“Hunk, my man, have I got a story to _tell_. You’re never going to believe me, but I _swear_ it’s crazy.”

Hunk sighs, but relents for now. They’ve been friends long enough for him to know that Lance will want a full captive audience to tell his tale, and they’ve been bandits long enough for him to know they don’t have time for that right now. “I followed the procession all the way back to town, but I had to wait for nobles to start arriving to sneak onto the castle grounds. I had some help getting in from a friend in the kitchens—“

“Was it Shay?”

“Yes, it was—“

“ _Ooooo_ —“

“Not now, Lance!” He hisses, shoving a bundle into Lance’s arms. He stumbles back a step, blinking down at—

“Hey! My stuff!” He goes through it quickly. Tying his pouches back to his belt, slipping his knife back into his boot, and fixing his bow and quiver over his shoulders, nestled on his back. It’s all quick and methodical, from years of practice. “How’d you get my stuff?”

“Found it in the storage room at the bottom of the tower. In the guards’ room.”

Lance pauses, glancing up at him with brows raised. “You went into the guards’ room?”

Hunk shrugs sheepishly. “How else would I get your stuff back?”

“Fair point, but what about the guards?”

“There were only two of them, and we, uh… we’ll find them knocked out at the bottom of the tower.”

“Hunk,” Lance says with a delighted laugh. “You _beast_!”

“I tried to be gentle,” he defends, biting at his lip and shifting his weight. His eyes glance down the stairs, a nervous energy rolling off him in waves. “But I had to hit them hard enough that they’d go down quickly…”

“I’m sure they’re fine.” He’s not, but it’s what Hunk needs to hear. He puts a hand on Hunk’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before starting back down the steps. “Now let’s make good use of the time you bought us, and get the hell out of here.”

“Sorry for taking so long,” Hunk says, following close at his heels.

“No problem, man. I could have gotten out sooner, but I decided to wait until dark. How’s the castle look right now?”

“Crowded, but all the nobles and visitors are distracted, and the servants and guards are too busy trying to keep up. Plus there are a lot of servants and footmen from visiting nobles.”

“So we should be able to get out of here unnoticed. And if a guard stops us, we just make up something about getting lost trying to find a bathroom. We’re basically home free.”

“Let’s get out of here first and get off of castle grounds, and _then_ I’ll call us home free.” They both pause at the bottom of the steps, leaning against a wall and listening for anyone nearby. “The guard room is just around the corner. I put the guards in there after I knocked them out.”

Lance peeks around the corner, finding the way clear. “Doesn’t seem like they’re awake yet. Let’s make a break for it.”

They dart through the halls, keeping close to the walls and slinking in the shadows. Lance leads, crouching low and scouting ahead, peeking around corners and signaling for Hunk to hide whenever he hears people coming near. For the most part, he doesn’t know where he’s going, but Hunk guides him, pointing out the way he had come.

Every step carries them further from the tower and into the castle proper. Hunk leads them toward the kitchens, where they should have good cover and a fairly simple shot into the woods beyond the castle. The deeper into the castle they get, the louder things become. They can hear the music and chatter echoing through the halls, distant and eerie. Ghostly, in a way, as they stay far from the main thoroughfare of the ball.

They only pass a few servants, and only a couple guards. None of whom give them a second glance as they walk briskly, but with purpose. Lance even gives them a small smile and a nod.

Would someone suspicious make eye contact with a guard?

Certainly not.

But now that they’re far from the tower, the decorations become richer. More elaborate. More flashy and pompous. Glittery and golden, showing off the wealth of the royal family. Tapestries and lush rugs. Carved busts and expensive paintings. Pottery and trophies lining the corridors.

All of it makes Lance’s palms _itch_ and his fingers twitch.

They _had_ been planning on sneaking in the castle— for the first time and in their boldest job yet— to try and take advantage of the festivities to lift some wealth straight out from under noble noses. Originally, he had been planning on dressing the part, with Hunk as his footman. They’d chat up the nobles, lift some jewelry, and take a peek around the castle for greater gains.

That plan went right out the window the moment Lance got arrested.

But here they are now, in the castle, with everyone distracted by the ball… It’s not what they planned on, but hey, he’s never been opposed to a little improvising. Or a little pilfering on the way out.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_ 1)  An ornate, important looking locked door - probably a study or office _

_ 2) The room where servants are waiting around with gifts for the king from their noble employers _

_**3) An** **old, dusty room that seems to have once been a music room** _

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“Hey, Hunk…” Lance’s pace slows as he turns to give Hunk a _look_. Pointed. A questioning brow raised. He knows there’s a gleam in his eyes. He can see it reflected in Hunk’s.

They grew up together. From the time when Lance was eight and his entire world fell apart, forced to flee in the middle of the night from the fires that ravaged noble homes. From the moment, tired and scared and ragged, they arrived on the doorstep of the Garret family farm. He and Hunk have been brothers.

Raised together. Grown together. When Lance left home to pursue this new life, determined to do what he could in his own way, Hunk was right there with him. Right at his side. Not because he felt like he needed to, but because he believed in the same things Lance did. Because they were on the same page.

They always are. Hunk keeps Lance from being too reckless, and Lance helps Hunk be brave. An impeccable team.

And as such, in moments like this, there’s little need for words. Because all it takes is _that look_ , and Hunk knows _exactly_ what Lance is getting at.

“Lance…” Low. Wary. More than a little exasperated.

“ _Hunk_.” Pleading. Stubborn. Perhaps a little petulant.

“You were _just_ in a jail cell.”

“And now I’m not, so we should probably make the best of it, shouldn’t we?”

“We need to get out of here—“

“And we _will_. But what’s the harm in grabbing something on our way out?” He gives Hunk a winning grin, one of confidence and mischief. One he knows has gotten them both in _and_ out of situations in the past. One that always makes Hunk crumble. He bumps their shoulders together, leaning in and whispering lowly. “Come on, buddy. We were going to sneak in here anyway, so might as well now that we’re here, right?”

Hunk frowns, brows furrowing. But he’s thinking about it. Lance would recognize that contemplative look anywhere. “Okay, but… we’re not infiltrating the ball.”

A soft scoff and shake of his head. “Of course not. We didn’t really get the chance to dress for that part anyway.”

Hunk gives him a considering eye, gaze narrowed and lips pursed. “No crowds.”

Lance nods. “No crowds.”

“Nothing too big. We have to be able to carry it out without getting noticed.”

“Small things only. Got it.”

“You get to choose _one_ room, Lance. _One room_. Whatever we find there, that’s it. Then we get out.”

Lance grins, victory bubbling on his tongue as he laughs. “You got it, buddy!” He grabs Hunk’s wrist and drags him down the hall, steering toward the side so he can peek into the rooms they pass.

This far from the main thoroughfare, most of the rooms are empty. Sitting rooms? Boring. Locked rooms? Probably offices. Intriguing, but they don’t have time for those. Servants rooms? He’s not here to steal from those with little.

However, as they near the end of the hall, he hears soft conversation and purposeful footsteps from around the corner ahead. Low murmured male voices. The kind that carry an attitude that’s far too haughty for a servant or guard.

“This one’s gonna have to do,” he says, yanking Hunk into the nearest room, practically whipping his friend inside before spinning on the door and shutting it as quietly as possible.

“Lance, what are you—“

“Uh-bub-bub, _shhhh_ ,” he hisses, waving a hand at Hunk as he presses his ear to the crack in the door. “I heard someone coming. Sounded like nobles.”

“Right… and you can just _tell_ from the sound of their footsteps.”

“Yes, you _can_. I was almost raised around noble assholes. Trust me, they have a very distinct way of carrying themselves. Remember how Marco used to strut around the city?”

“You mean how _you_ strut around the city?”

“Shut up, that’s different.”

Hunk hums, thoughtful but disbelieving. An offhanded and teasing dismissal that Lance has come to know means that he’ll let Lance win this one.

“Whatever,” Lance says. “See if you can find anything good.” He keeps his ear against the crack of the door, listening as the voices get louder and the footsteps closer. He bristles, breath shallow as he waits, hoping for them to pass. Behind him, he can hear Hunk softly rummaging around in the room, muttering under his breath.

But he focuses on the voices in the hall. Now that they’re getting closer, the general din of voices sharpens into distinguishable words. Two men, from the sound of it. Speaking in hushed tones. Confident and sharp, even as they’re cautious and wary.

Voices like that are rarely up to anything good.

He would know. He and Hunk talk like that often. It’s the familiar tones of _scheming_ , mixed with the haughty undertones of pompous nobles. A terrible mix, honestly.

“Are you sure the princess won’t be a problem?” One of the voices say, uncertain and wary.

A scoff. “If a marriage between them were in the cards, they would have done so to secure the alliance in the first place. No, I suspect those rumors are merely rumors. This leaves our king’s hand unwed and ripe for the picking.”

“What makes you so confident that he’ll choose _your_ daughter? _I_ heard that the Septimus family is planning on presenting their daughter, and she is nothing to scoff at.”

“Are you on my side or not?”

“You know I am, but we must look at all the possibilities.”

“We’ll have the Septimus girl dealt with.”

“What about the king himself? He’s never been one to be swayed by a pretty face.”

“We’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse. He needs my family’s support to maintain peace in the southern lands. Once they’ve wed, I’ll have a bigger position on the council. And once my daughter is carrying his heir, we’ll have no need of him anymore.”

“You can’t mean—“

“I do. I will see my blood mixed with that of the dragonheart bloodline and ensure that my family will rule for generations to come.”

Their voices grow fainter as their footsteps carry them past the door and down the hall, words fading to an incomprehensible murmur as the distance stretches.

Lance frowns, hand curled into a fist against the door. He… doesn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit. Not that he’s _surprised_ , per se. Nobles are always scheming, especially those left in power after Zarkon’s brief but terrible reign.

Had he heard the same thing a week ago, Lance might have scoffed, rolled his eyes, and gone about his business of thievery. But now…

He sighs, shaking his head to banish thoughts of Keith’s handsome face and pretty eyes, features scrunched into a petulant pout that doesn’t at all fit a king but is endearing nonetheless…

It’s not Lance’s place. He doesn’t know the king. Not really. Besides, he had his own job to do. His own work to be done. He’s not here to protect the _king_. He’s here to protect the _people_.

And there are starving people who need the gold Lance can provide to survive.

Besides, a warrior king can take care of himself… right?

“Hey, Lance.” His eyes flicker open, turning away from the door to find Hunk across the room, holding up a simple but elegantly carved candelabrum. His brows are furrowed, arm bobbing as he tries to weigh it in his palm. “I think it’s solid gold. It might be hard to get out, but it can be melted down for a lot. Do you think it’s worth it?”

“Definitely,” he says with a nod, stepping away from the door with his hands on his hips. “Where are we, anyway?”

“Seems to be an old music room.” Hunk wipes a finger across the mantel where the candelabrum had stood, lip curling as he rubs the fingertip with his thumb. “Though judging from the dust, I’d say it hasn’t been used in a long time.”

The room is fairly sizable, though it’s clear that it’s meant to be a private music room. No space for a huge audience. No grand, vaulted ceilings. Merely a quaint little sitting area with couches and tables next to an ornate fireplace. Shelves line the walls, filled with books and— upon closer inspection— scores upon scores of music.

A grand piano sits abandoned in the corner. A harpsichord across the room. All sorts of stringed instruments sit upright against stands made specifically for them, looking like decoration more than anything, strings no doubt loose and fraying. There are other instruments, too. Flutes and trumpets. A large, standing harp. Boxed instruments that Lance has never seen.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, undisturbed and marking the passage of time.

Lance finds himself standing before the fireplace, gazing up at the portrait hung over the mantel. A large painting of the old royal family. They’re gathered around the grand piano that stands in this very room.

The queen stands next to it, a hand resting atop. He’s seen portraits of her before. Heard rumors of her stern and elegant beauty. When he was young, he had met her at a banquet, but all his memories from the time before the Noble Purge are fuzzy and vague. She stands here in a velvet dress of Marmoran colors, parted at the front to reveal black leggings and riding boots. A sword at her hip. A ruby necklace at her throat that glows like fire. Stern eyes. A small smile. Sharp features.

Lance doesn’t recognize the man who sits at the piano bench, but he knows who he is. The King Consort. The man Queen Krolia had married, against the will of her advisors. A common man, with no titles or power of his own. A man with soft brown hair and softer brown eyes. Even in this painting, he’s dressed as a royal, yet Lance can see the markings of his humble upbringing in his face.

And in his lap sits a young Prince Keith. He can’t be older than eight, soft and pudgy with youth. Yet even then, he had an unruly mass of dark hair and the sharp violet eyes of his mother. His lips are pursed into a stern expression that looks comical on one so young.

It makes Lance’s chest ache, looking at an image of a past that was never meant to last.

Zarkon must have struck only a year or so after this painting was made. It makes Lance wonder if Keith has any memories of this room. If his parents spent much time here. If he was ever taught to play any of the instruments scattered about. Was he happy to learn? Or did he throw a fit and do it with a pout?

Has Keith been in this room since he reclaimed his throne? Would he even care to?

“There’s not a lot here,” Hunk says, poking around the room behind him, mumbling his thoughts aloud to himself as much as to Lance. “It’s been abandoned so long that I doubt there’s any gold or gems. Definitely not anything easy to take. The instruments might sell, but they’re too big. Maybe some of the music scores? But those would be hard to sell… We could always pick off some of the piano keys. It looks like they’re made of ivory—“

“No,” Lance says suddenly, spinning around to face Hunk. “We can’t— we’re not dismantling anything.” Hunk stares at him, one eyebrow raised, and Lance clears his throat. “We don’t have time anyway, and there’s no guarantee we can get much for them. Let’s just find something easier.”

He moves about the room, searching low and high, making it a point not to meet Hunk’s curious gaze. He… doesn’t want to admit that the thought of dismantling Keith’s childhood memories makes his heart twist and makes bile rise up his throat.

He knows what it’s like to lose everything. At least Keith has the opportunity to see his childhood sanctuaries again. Lance won’t be the one to ruin that for him.

In the end, they manage a few good finds. In addition to the gold candelabrum, they find an intricately carved music box (surprisingly still functional), and a gem encrusted box that holds a variety of strings still in good condition. All together, it should fetch a pretty penny. Certainly enough to make their detour worth it.

There will be whole families who won’t starve in the months to come.

They’re situating the items between them when they hear the rushed footsteps in the hall. Heavy footsteps and the clattering of armor. They both freeze, eyes wide as they stare at each other, breath held as they wait—

“ _Hurry_!” Comes a gruff call from the hall. It’s already fading as the group sprints past the room and continues on. “ _The prisoner from the tower has escaped! The Blue Bandit! Spread the word. He can’t have gotten far!”_

A strangled noise escapes Hunk’s throat, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle it. Lance curses under his breath, head falling back as his eyes squeeze shut. “The _guards_. They must have woken up.”

“Or someone found them,” Hunk offers, voice strained and wavering in his mounting panic. He holds two candelabra’s in his hands, waving them about as he talks. “But I hope they woke up— I mean, I’m glad they did eventually. I really, _really_ didn’t want to kill them, so I’m happy about that but— _Lance_ , what’re we going to _do?_ We’re in the palace— we’re trapped— if those guards are awake they’ll definitely recognize me, too, and we’re still so far from the kitchens—“

“Hunk, buddy, _shhhh_. Breathe. It’s okay. We’ve got this.” He sets the two boxes down, shuffling around the room. “We’ve _always_ got this. We always get out, and this time will be no different. Just trust me, okay?”

“Okay.” Hunk takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Okay, okay. I trust you, man. I always trust you. Maybe we should just leave this stuff, and—“

“No,” he says, voice stern and frown hard set. “There are people counting on us. Now where was that… I thought I saw something earlier— _Aha_! There you are.”

He pulls out a satchel that had been leaning up against a desk in the corner. It’s old and worn, not falling apart but also unassuming. He dumps out the contents— books and loose sheets of half transcribed music— and dusts it off.

“This whole thing didn’t really go to plan, but we’ve got to make the most of it while we’re here,” he says as he walks back to Hunk.

He carefully tucks the two boxes into the bag before taking the candelabras from Hunk, slipping them in as well. It’s not a perfect fit. The bag is heavy and lumpy, but if it’s half hidden under Hunk’s cloak, it’ll definitely do.

He heaves it up, shoving it against Hunk’s chest and holding it there as the man grabs for it. He leans in, meeting Hunk’s wide, uncertain gaze. “We are Lions, Hunk,” he says, voice low and hard. Reassuring in his unwavering confidence. “We are brave when other’s can’t be.”

“Right...” Hunk lets out a breath, face easing into something more focused— more confident— more in control. And then he smiles, small but bright. “We are Lions.”

Lance grins, wide and toothy, a laugh bubbling on his tongue. “There he is! That’s the Hunk I’d go through hell and back with.”

Hunk snorts a short laugh, taking the satchel and shouldering it, adjusting it on his hip and letting his cloak obscure it. “I should be the one saying that about _you_. You’re the one always getting us into these situations.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

A sigh, exasperated but fond. “I really wouldn’t.”

Lance listens at the door, only opening it and peering out when all seems silent. With the coast clear, he and Hunk slip out into the hall. Hunk walks to the side of the corridor, but in the open. A little stiff— obviously nervous— but no more so than the other uncertain servants they pass. For the most part, he blends in. Right under the guard’s nose. Few would look at him twice.

Lance’s time to walk boldly through the halls, however, has passed. Now that the guards are out looking for him, he can’t rely on their ignorance and his confidence to get him by. So he pulls up his mask, covering the bottom half of his face, and adjusts his cloak to hide the bow and quiver on his back. They’ll be harder to reach— and he certainly won’t be able to draw them quickly— but the weapon is a red flag for his identity, and he doesn’t plan on fighting anyway. He keeps his hood down, not wanting to obscure his peripheral vision.

He slinks in the shadows, keeping pace with Hunk, hiding whenever servants pass. He can already smell the kitchens, and they pass more and more servants carrying wines and dishes.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, Lance thinks… everything will turn out alright. They’ll get out unseen, return to their hideout in the western woods, and this whole stint— including King Keith— will be behind them.

Unfortunately, things never go according to plan.

His hopes are violently dashed the moment he hears a sharp and abrupt, “ _You there!_ ”

He freezes mid-step, halfway across a corridor. His eyes widen, gaze focused on Hunk, who stands in the doorway to the kitchen, out of sight from the guard. Clutching the satchel to his chest.

Lance _could_ make a break for it. Dash through the kitchen and hopefully lose the guards in the chaos. But Hunk is not a runner, and he can’t risk the guard noticing him. He needs to get out, too, and the best chance of that is through the kitchens. Quietly. Unnoticed.

And if that means Lance leads the guards on a wild goose chase and finds his own way out… then so be it.

“ _Go_ ,” he hisses to Hunk. Who purses his lips tight, eyes going hard as he shakes his head. Lance merely gives him a cocky smirk and a wink.

“Lance, _don’t_ —“

“Say hi to Shay for me.” He doesn’t wait for a response before turning on his heel, straightening as he does to face the guard — _two_ guards, actually. Both standing down the corridor, hands on the hilts of their swords. As they see Lance’s masked face, their eyes go wide. He cocks a grin, knowing it’ll come across in his voice. “Who? _Me_?”

“It’s him…” He hears one of the guards mutter. Then, louder, “It’s the Blue Bandit!” The two of them rip their swords from their sheaths, which… is a pretty bad sign, but Lance can’t say he’s surprised.

“He’s here!” Calls the other, turning to shout down the hall.

“Hey, fellas,” Lance says, throwing up his hands. “Surely we can talk about this?”

“Come quietly, and we won’t have to hurt you.” They start moving toward him, steps careful and wary.

Lance scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Have you _met_ me? I don’t think I’m capable of doing anything quietly—“

“You’re under arrest.”

“I was already under arrest. I got out of it, though. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way—“ He takes a step backwards.

“ _Halt_!”

“My mama will be the first to tell you that I don’t take orders well.”

They continue to move forward, and he takes another step back. “Stop!”

“No can do. Sorry, I’m sure you’re lovely people and wonderful at your job, but I have a reputation to uphold.” He smirks beneath his mask, giving a sweeping bow that makes both guards flinch, falling into defensive positions. When Lance looks up at them, he can feel his eyes crinkling with his grin. “The Blue Lion _always_ escapes.”

Taking advantage of their momentary pause, he spins on his heels, and _runs_.

He sprints down the castle corridors— taking turns at random— spinning around and heading in another direction as he meets more guards that join the chase— the shouted demands and the clank of armor nipping at his heels.

He has no idea where he’s going, already turned around and lost within the maze of a castle. All he knows is that his mad dash— and attempts at avoiding the guards— have led him closer and closer to the ballroom. It’s no longer just servants he passes in the halls, pressing tight against the walls to avoid the rush of guards, but also nobles, rich merchants, and foreign dignitaries.

People dressed in their best silks, colors, and jewels, holding goblets of wine and wandering the nearby halls in small groups for private chats.

At first, his heart leaps to his throat. He’s been herded right into the center of the festivities. Right where the crowds are thickest and the most guards gather. Right where he can be made into a spectacle.

But… that might be to his advantage.

If it’s a spectacle they want, it’s a spectacle he’ll give them. If they think a crowd will be a deterrent, they’re wrong. A gathering of nobles _can_ be obstacles… but not for Lance.

Instead of steering away from the crowded halls, Lance dives right for them.

They shout and scatter as Lance surges through. “Pardon me. Excuse me. Don’t mind me, but by all means, please complain to the men behind me.” He doesn’t stop, but that doesn’t mean he can’t grin beneath his mask and toss a wink in his wake. “You look beautiful this evening. The gem of the ball. My, sir, you are ravishing. Do excuse me. Pardon! Coming through! Save a dance for me, my lady.”

He salutes men he passes and offers quick bows to the women. Always in motion. Never stopping. Spinning and weaving through clusters of people who clump together and scatter to get out of his way.

And all the while, the guards chasing him stumble through the crowd. They’re far less graceful and far more wary about offending those they’re shoving past. He hears them stumble. Watches them trip and knock each other over.

He laughs, sweeping men and women alike into quick spins before continuing on. Taking a woman’s hand and bowing low to press his masked lips to the back of her hand, winking when he sees her blush—

And all the while, his itchy hands do their work.

Slipping rings off fingers. Snatching bracelets off wrists. Snatching a pouch from belts. He makes a show of it. A grand spectacle of sweeping through the crowd, throwing out compliments and commentary, laughing boldly and brashly as he dances and weaves, wrapping up nobles into his game.

And he makes off with their valuables, slipping snuggly into the pouches on his own belt, long gone before they’re any the wiser.

He’s not sure where he is, but he’s fairly certain that he’s skirted around the main thoroghfare of the ball. The nobles lessen until the halls are more empty than not. Until he can go several turns without seeing head nor hair of servant, noble, or guard.

He knows he’s still being pursued, but they’re far enough behind that Lance feels like he can breathe. Can think of a way out. Can _laugh_ as the giddiness of relief surges through him in the wakes of his adrenaline.

And laugh he does— right up until he turns a corner and nearly topples into a servant carrying a tray of dishes.

He sees her eyes widen— sees her stumble back— his momentum is careening, but he manages to throw his weigh to the side— trying to pivot before he crashes into her—

She gasps.

The tray falls to the ground and the dishes shatter.

Pain cracks in his ankle and rips up his leg like fire.

He gasps, falling to the side and stumbling into a wall. Leaning against it heavily while he catches his breath. She holds her hands to her chest, eyes wide as she stares. He hopes it’s more startled than scared.

“Sorry about that.” He pushes off the wall and winces as he tries to put weight on his right foot. “I’d stay and help you clean up, but—“ He pauses, listening to the distant shout of guards. “I have to go. Sorry, again!”

He hurries down the hall as quick as he can. He’s limping, but he doesn’t care. Hunk can chastise him later. As long as his ankle doesn’t give out completely, he needs to keep going. Needs to get out of here. For now he’ll just grit his teeth and against the pain and bear it.

It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.

He once dragged his sorry ass through the forest with the heat of an explosion still freshly seared into his back, vision spotted and hazy. At least this time there’s no blood. A little pain? He can handle that.

He hears the clattering of the guards not far behind. Knows they’ll gain on him faster now. Hears a feminine voice say, “ _He went that way._ ”

He doesn’t have much time. He at least needs to find a place to hide. Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself into a sprint, biting back the gasp when pain flares up— limping as much as he can to relieve the pressure— knowing that he’ll regret this but not having much of a choice—

 _There_. Up ahead on the left. An open door. Probably a sitting room. Empty, if the silence in this hall is anything to go by. _Perfect_. He rushes for it, grabbing the doorframe and swinging himself around the corner— throwing himself into the room—

And straight into a man’s chest.

The air rushes from his lungs as something lands solidly against his gut. An… arm? There’s a responding grunt, and a hand lands firmly on his hip to steady him. His own hands land on the man’s chest. The way he collapses against him is _embarrassing_ , but it can’t be helped with the way his ankle _burns_.

They both rock together, nearly toppling over before the other man, broad and sturdy, steadies them both.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lance hisses, brows furrowed. He forces a laugh, cringing at how strained it is. “Sorry about that—“ He cuts himself off as he leans back to look at the man, mouth falling open and eyes going wide. “ _Keith_?”

Because yes, he has found himself in a little sitting room. But no, it hadn’t been empty. It had been occupied by none other than the _king_.

And that arm knocking the wind from his gut? Yeah. The king’s _broken_ arm slung across his chest. Great. Just great.

Keith’s thick brows furrow, though it’s more baffled than angry. “You—“ He cuts himself off, mouth working silently around words half abandoned.

Right. Lance never gave him his name, did he?

He opens his mouth, but snaps it shut as he hears the distant shout of guards. His head whips around, staring out the open door into the hall. His fingers curl into the front of Keith’s vest— very soft and very rich fabric, Lance wishes he had time to appreciate it.

He turns back around. “I have to go—“ But as he tries to move away, his ankle gives out the moment pressure is put on it. He gasps sharply and would have fallen if Keith hadn’t stepped forward, arm wrapping around his waist to steady him.

“You’re hurt—“

“No shit, your majesty,” Lance hisses, eyes still over his shoulder. He pushes on Keith’s chest, but the king doesn’t budge. “But I need to go—“

“You’re not going to get far like this.”

“I have to try.”

“I thought you always escaped?”

“Yeah, and I’m kind of in the process of that, so if you could just—“

“ _He went this way!_ ”

“ _This hall ends ahead. Check the rooms! He must be hiding_.”

He turns back to Keith, but the King’s eyes are on the hall beyond the door. Brows furrowed and lips pursed tight. His eyes flicker, focus distant as he loses himself in thought. His expression is hard, but not closed off. Lance can see that he’s torn. He can see the conflict raging behind those pretty dark eyes. He can see the spark of… _something_. Of a fleeting thought that lightens his features before it’s chased away— and Lance feels the need to snatch _whatever that is_ before it dies.

It looked like excitement. It looked like _hope_. And he can’t let whatever it is die to uncertainty and indecision.

Because to get out of this now, he needs Keith to be on his side.

“Please,” he whispers, voice hoarse and broken as panic wells up in his throat. It burns in his veins, chasing away the pain in his ankle. His chest feels tight, breath coming short and shallow. It’s dawning on him that his fate isn’t in his own hands anymore— he’s at the king’s mercy.

Keith’s eyes snap down to his, surprise coloring his uncertainty. His gaze flickers, taking in Lance’s face. And Lance bites at his lip, fingers curling tighter into the king’s vest.

“Please,” he repeats, barely a whisper, lest his voice crack. He reaches up to pull down his mask, letting Keith see the entirety of his face.

That _something_ flickers behind his eyes once more. Something heated and bright. Something _determined_ and _strong_. He’s still at war. Lance can see the wheels turning. Running through all the possibilities— all the things he should and shouldn’t do— weighing Lance’s fate.

He already offered Lance an out, and Lance had blown it. He wouldn’t be surprised if the king handed him over. Saved his reputation and refused to give Lance a second chance. After all, what is he but a mere bandit?

But there’s something in the way Keith is looking at him. Considering. Uncertain. Pained. _Torn_. And that means Lance has a chance.

The clattering of guards in the hall, their footsteps heavy in their haste. “ _There! In here!_ ”

“ _Your majesty!_ ”

Lance swallows, fear biting at his heels. Cold dread running like ice down his spine. “Don’t let them hang me, please,” he breathes hoarsely. “Anything but that. I can’t— I can’t let my family see that.”

Imprisonment or death, he doesn’t care. He’ll take any punishment if it means they don’t hang him for all to see. He can’t bear the thought of his mama finding him like that.

Keith’s eyes flicker between his own, narrowing as something steels in gaze. Something ignites. A spark that _burns_ to a flame. His entire expression hardens, and Lance shivers, uncertain if it bodes well or ill.

“Do you trust me?” Keith whispers lowly.

And honestly? “No…”

The corners of Keith’s lips twitch, forming a brief and fleeting smirk for only the span between blinks. “Then this is a great time to start.”

And that’s— did he— that’s what Lance had said in the woods—

The arm around Lance’s waist tightens, pulling him flush against the king’s chest. The air rushes from him, only to be drawn back in with a sharp gasp. The arm around him is strong and steady, oddly reassuring given that it’s keeping him from running. He only has a moment to appreciate the broadness of Keith’s shoulders and the hardness of his chest— not to mention the delightful smell of cinnamon and musk— before the guards are stumbling into the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” Keith demands, and—

 _Oh_. Okay. That’s _definitely_ not the Keith he’s come to know. This is a stern and cold man. One who exudes power and command with merely his voice. His stance is tall and proud, and Lance feels small pressed up against him. He’s… actually a little scared to look up at his face.

No wonder people fear the king as much as they fawn over him.

“Your majesty, that’s the Blue Bandit.”

Lance stiffens, but he doesn’t dare to move. Or breathe. Or do much of anything, really. He just stares at the king’s vest beneath his cheek, focusing on where the shirt parts enough for him to get a peek at his sharp collarbones.

He can hear the sound of the guards half bowing in their armor, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the king’s gaze. Those who speak are trying to be stern, but there’s a wariness there. Which is probably due in part to nervousness at addressing the king… and probably confusion as to why the king is _holding_ the bandit they’ve been chasing.

“He escaped his prison cell in the tower. We’ve been chasing him through the castle.“

“Well done capturing him, your majesty.”

“We will take him back and see that he is dealt with—“

“You will do no such thing.” Keith’s voice is sharp, making them all freeze. His stance shifts. Curling his arm and turning his body. Just barely, but it’s protective, and that doesn’t go unnoticed. “This man saved my life, and I have given him my full pardon.”

Silence. Chilling, uncertain, confused silence. Filled with soft gasps and even softer murmurs from the guards still in the hall.

And then one brave soul. “Y-Your Majesty?”

“You will not touch him.” It’s a command. Harshly dealt and sharp as steel. A bite to his voice that reminds them all just who he is and what bloodline he belongs to.

And then, just as Lance dares to breathe a sigh of relief, the king deals the finishing blow—

“This man is my royal mistress.” The shock that ripples through them is _palpable_. Lance’s heart leaps into his throat, suffocating and dizzying. His heartbeat ringing in his ears. Body frozen as he tries to process— “Send word to have the royal suite attached to mine prepared. Have a bath drawn and food from the banquet brought up.”

A pause— tension thick enough to cut with a knife— a strange weightlessness in the moment while everyone waits for something to drop—

“Did you not hear me? _Go_ ,” Keith barks, and the guards startle and scramble.

And Lance is just left reeling, held flush to the king’s chest, head hazy and ankle throbbing.

Never mind Hunk. His _mama_ is going to kill him. If the kingdom doesn’t get to him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
> 
> I'm most active on twitter. To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith's instincts and his brain aren't always on the same page. Strategy is hard. Words are harder. But his gut has never steered him wrong. Acting on impulse has become second nature, and he doesn't think twice. Especially in times that require quick action. 
> 
> He's never had a reason to question his gut... but not everyone feels the same. He has to figure out how to convince the Blue Bandit to go along with his half-cocked idea. But... how does he convince someone to be his fake mistress?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's participated in this story so far! It's been a lot of fun to work on. The paths chosen in this one made the chapter a little longer than usual. Because this is klance, and they can’t do anything straight forward, can they?
> 
> And thank you everyone who's reading, commenting, and even you silent peeps enjoying the ride <33
> 
> Here's some Keith POV! Happy reading!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) Go back to the ball for now - give them both some time alone to process_

_**2) Escort Lance to the royal suite - deal with it head on** _

_3) Take Lance to Shiro's office - get some help_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Keith has always been known to be impulsive, but he prefers to think of his actions as instinctual and intuitive.

Caught up in an adrenaline fueled moment— teetering on the precipice of action— where there’s no room to think, analyze, or consider— where quick action is needed and indecision could mean life or death— This is where Keith thrives.

He grew up fighting a war. He was raised in it and _for_ it. And there are moments in battle, on missions when things go sour, where there’s no room to consider the consequences of various actions. As a leader— as the lost prince and future king— he’s had to learn to make hasty decisions and carry them through. To stand firm behind his convictions. To make do with what he has at hand. To come out on top against all odds.

Shiro will complain about his impulsive nature— will even playfully blame Keith for his graying hair though they both know that’s not the case— but he’ll also be the first to say that Keith’s intuition is usually right.

They wouldn’t have gotten this far without it. They wouldn’t have toppled his uncle and won the war. Without listening to his gut— throwing himself completely and confidently behind his instincts— he wouldn’t be king.

Though… he will admit that while it’s a great strategy for war, it’s fairly terrible when it comes to politics.

That’s a game he never learned how to play. He was too busy learning the blade and how to survive. His lessons covered history, science, maths, and strategy. The Blade of Marmora raised him with the single minded focus of taking back his throne. Everything else— including the intricacies and subtleties of subterfuge and politics— was deemed something that could wait.

And now he’s _here._ He’s _king_. And he has no fucking idea what he’s doing.

They’re trying. The Blade. Shiro. His advisors. But if anything has become clear in the past year, it’s that Keith has no knack for actually ruling. His council has taken off with that knowledge, and for the most part, Keith has been content to let them deal with the day-to-day local politics while he simply focuses on maintaining the throne and keeping his country in peace.

At least… he _was_ content with the balance they struck. Now… he’s not so sure.

He’s never really seen his rule from an outside perspective. Never really thought much about how it might appear to the common folk. Too caught up in the whirlwind of his own responsibilities, inadequacies, and tremulous grasp on his own power.

He’s heard some rumors, of course. The ones that praise him, calling him handsome, mysterious, and strong. But he’s never heard the others.

About him locking himself away. About letting his council run amuck.

Until the Blue Bandit.

Keith still remembers the _venom_ with which he spoke of the king before he realized he had that very king pinned to the ground. He hadn’t said much, but what was left unsaid— lingering in the subtext— spoke volumes. Enough to make Keith’s head spin and his gut twist in guilt.

The implication that Keith didn’t _care_. That his council has been hurting his people. That his people might possibly think he’s no better than _Zarkon_.

That he’s not worthy to follow in his mother’s footsteps.

It’s all he’s been able to think about since he woke up, bandaged and doted on in his own bed. It’s all he’s been able to think about while he dealt with Shiro’s worry and last minute preparations for the ball. All he’s been able to think about while at the festivities— a small smile straining his lips as he greets guests— body rigid in his formal attire— voice carefully _careful_ as he engaged in enough small talk to make him sick.

He wants to blame his throbbing headache on all the _thinking_ , but that’s probably the lingering concussion from hitting his head hard enough to knock him out.

Shiro had insisted that Keith sit out the festivities. It wouldn’t have been strange or out of the question. Keith has a reputation for avoiding formal events, and no one would have blamed the king for it after sustaining injuries on the hunting trip.

No one except… the Blue Bandit.

It would have just been another instance where Keith has hidden himself away and let his council control things. Let _them_ be the face of the kingdom instead of doing it himself.

He… doesn’t like the thought of disappointing the Blue Bandit. And… that thought makes no sense. Why would he be worried about disappointing a _thief?_

But… he’s not just a common pick pocket. Nor is he some nefarious murderer. He’s… kind. He has kind eyes. And a companionable smile. Even after learning that Keith is the king, he hasn’t changed the way he treats him. The way he talks to him. He _sees_ Keith. Sees him how he is, and not who he’s meant to be. 

Even when he’s criticizing, he never makes Keith feel small. The Blue Bandit doesn’t make him feel inadequate. Doesn’t make him feel like he’s doing a terrible job as king.

He makes him feel like he could be doing _better_. Makes him _want_ to do better. There’s always a challenge in those frustratingly blue eyes. A spark of _something_ that has heat igniting in Keith’s chest and sizzling like lightning through his veins. Kindling a desire to _prove himself_.

It’s strange.

It’s insane.

It’s idiotic.

It makes absolutely no sense how this one man can have such a strong sway over him.

And Keith _refuses_ to acknowledge that it might have to do with the handsome angles of the man’s face, or the cute little up-turn of his nose, or the toned biceps and deadly accuracy of his skill with a bow. He will defiantly squash the thoughts of those challenging blue eyes crinkled in devilish amusement, or those lips curled into a sly, sinful smirk. And he will _definitely_ not think about how his stomach flips and twists itself in knots whenever the Blue Bandit is informal with him, treating him like an equal.

The Blue Bandit is… _something_. But that something has nothing to do with his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and roguish grin.

Nothing at all.

And yet thoughts of _him_ have been wrapped up in thoughts of his _reign_. And his council. And what he needs to do about it.

And what it comes down to is that Keith has absolutely no idea what to do, and quite frankly, it _pisses him off_. He’s been caught up in _thinking_ for nearly two days, and he has nothing to show for it. Nothing besides a pounding headache that throbs behind his eyes and sends jolts of pain down his spine.

He doesn’t know how to handle his council or politics. Whenever he tries, he just looks like a fool in front of his advisors. He was raised for _war_. He wasn’t prepared for ruling the country afterward.

He’s a man of _action_ , and all this thinking— scheming, planning, theorizing— is a fucking _pain_. Literally and figuratively.

He’s terrible at actually ruling, and the only one who’s ever dared to tell him to his face— though he admittedly didn’t know who he was talking to at the time (Keith finds his ignorance a little endearing)— is the Blue Bandit.

The Blue Bandit, who’s wrapped up in his thoughts… who seems to know what he was talking about, or at least implied that he was raised to know politics in a way that Keith wasn’t… who isn’t afraid to tell Keith when he’s doing something stupid or foolhardy… who isn’t afraid to challenge him…

And then _those thoughts_ get jumbled and mixed in with thoughts of his _parents_. His father had been a commoner. No power to his name. But his mother had fallen in love all the same. Her own council wouldn’t approve a marriage, so she made him her royal mistress and refused all official suitors.

With being an official mistress, his father gained some power. he was able to put that power to good use. Help the people. Prove himself. Until their marriage was finally approved and he became the Prince Consort.

And they were both loved by the people.

Keith can’t help but think… about how he can use their precedent to his advantage— which would be for the betterment of the kingdom and _not_ because his stomach twists at the thought of never seeing the Blue Bandit again.

Except… he doesn’t know how to convince the Blue Bandit to go along with that plan. It would require some… close situations. And besides, would he even _want_ to help Keith? Want to stay in the castle?

And _fuck_ , Keith had basically given him a key out of the place when he passed over his treasured lock picks in a moment of impulsive gratitude and desire to help the man. He’ll probably never see those lock picks again.

Which… makes his chest ache. They were a gift from a boy so long ago that Keith barely remembers his face. A boy who was fiercely loyal and a challenging spark in his eyes.

The first boy who ever made Keith’s heart pound and his blood run hot.

Maybe that’s why Keith feels so drawn to the Blue Bandit. He can see the similarities in attitude. Maybe Keith has a type…

That’s not the point.

The point is that Keith was considering a reckless, impulsive, and possibly disastrous plan. But that plan was impossible given that the Blue Bandit was likely long gone. Or so he had _assumed_. Given the fact that he basically had a _key_ and the whole _I always escape_ cockiness.

So when Keith excused himself from the ball— throbbing head becoming worse with the music and constant conversation— he had just been hoping for a moment of silence to ease the pain, breathe, and gather himself for his final appearance before getting to retire for the night.

The last thing he expected was for the Blue Bandit to come barreling into him— injured, frantic, and pursued.

And that’s…

That’s when Keith found himself in familiar territory.

Caught up in an adrenaline fueled moment— teetering on the precipice of action— where there’s no room to think, analyze, or consider— where quick action is needed and indecision could mean life or death—

This is where he _thrives_.

Keith— isn’t exactly sure what happened. One moment he was caught up in the Blue Bandit’s pretty blue eyes, wet with moisture and expression open— cracked— vulnerable— pleading— And then in the next, something had taken over. An instinct that goes far deeper than _thinking_ ever could. A fierce desire to _protect_.

So he had snapped into action. Held himself like he was taught to do, as a leader and as a king. And he had made the decision that he believed would have the best outcome. Let the words roll off his tongue without any doubt. Fully confident. Full of unwavering command.

And it’s not until the guards are bowing and scrambling out of the room that the weight of his words— the consequences of what he’s just done— really starts to sink in.

And—

Oh…

Oh, _fuck_.

 _There’s_ the cold, chilling bite of panic, stabbing into his chest and punching the air right out of his lungs. The prickling sensation of dread crawling through his veins like needles. Making his chest tight and his breath shallow—

But still he holds himself tall. Firm. Confident. Projecting the king he’s been taught to be seen as. Expression closed down and locked. Unyielding. Eyes sharp. Revealing nothing. Hiding his thoughts away like cards, keeping them close to the chest. Not letting anyone see a single crack in his composure.

Even as the ice starts to crystalize under his skin.

He can feel it in how stiff his movements are. In how straight his spine holds. In how cold his lips feel, pursed tight as he tries not to grimace.

The guards shuffle out of the room, some of them scurrying away after rushed and hushed orders are issued. But others wait in the hall. He knows they mean to escort him where ever he intends to go. Not to keep an eye on him but because they feel it’s their duty. And it is, despite how much Keith hates it.

He inhales deeply through his nose, letting it out long and slow. With the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the Blue Bandit lifts his head, eyes wide as they stare up at Keith— confused, shocked, bordering on frantic. Keith’s arm instinctually tightens around him, warning him silently not to run. _Hoping_ that the man has enough self-preservation and presence of mind to just _go along with it_.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, hoping it sounds confident, even if he doesn’t feel it.

And thankfully, as Keith starts to move toward the door, the Blue Bandit moves with him. It’s an awkward shuffle, but it lacks resistance, and that’s what matters. Keith just needs to get him to the privacy of his rooms so he can _explain_ —

Oh god, he has no idea what he’s going to say.

What was he _thinking?_ Keith is _terrible_ with words, and he needs to somehow explain to the most notorious thief in his kingdom why he needs to stay— essentially under lock and key— and pretend to be his _mistress_ —

Shiro is going to kill him.

If the Blue Bandit doesn’t do it first.

Once they get into the hall, the guards fall into step around them. But they only get a few steps before Keith realizes… this isn’t going to work. Pressed up against his side as he is, tucked under Keith’s arm, he can feel exactly how much the Blue Bandit is limping. And when he glances down, Keith can see the wince he’s trying so hard to keep hidden.

Fuck.

 _Fuck._ He’s injured, and Keith is about to make him walk across the whole damn castle, up three flights of stairs…

Keith doesn’t think. He’s been doing enough of that, and all he’s gotten is a headache. Acting impulsively has gotten him into this situation, and he might as well ride it out.

He lets go of the man briefly, turning to face him. His handsome face is twisted up in that endearing cocktail of confusion and surprise as he meets Keith’s eye.

He’s one of the only people Keith has met who never flinches away from his gaze. Even when he’s glaring. Which… he doesn’t _think_ he’s glaring right now, but Shiro has told him it sort of just _happens_ whenever he’s being… _kingly_.

“You’re hurt.” His words are hard and blunt, but he tries to soften his tone into one of concern.

He thinks it works, judging by the way the man’s confusion melts into wry amusement, accompanied by a sharp exhale. The echo of a laugh. “How kind of you to notice, _your majesty_.” He says, layering on the pleasantries. It’s mocking, but not in the sharp, cutting way of the court. It’s more playful. Jabbing. As if hinting at a secret between them.

Which… Keith supposes they have now.

A shiver runs down his spine, caught up in the quirk of the man’s brow and the subtle tilt of his lips.

Still, his brows furrow, scowl deepening. “What happened?”

At that, he has the decency to look sheepish, shrugging off Keith’s concern as he averts his eyes. “Just… twisted my ankle… running…”

Keith casts a sharp look to the guards trailing after them, but they’re keeping a careful distance and don’t meet his eye. Keith looks back to the Blue Bandit, considering… He can’t make the man walk on an injured ankle the entire way. He doesn’t have the healing stamina that Keith has. And… well, they already think he’s Keith’s mistress, so...

Fuck decorum. He’s in this deep anyway. Might as well hammer home the whole _mistress_ thing so his guards have no room to doubt.

He’ll just scoop the Blue Bandit up and carry him back to the royal suite.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) Carry him in Keith's arms - bridal style - ignore the pain in his arm_

_2) Pick him up and sling him over his shoulder - the surprise could make for playful revenge after the whole forest incident_

_**3) Insist that he climb on Keith's back - piggyback style - uncouth but who cares** _

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

With one arm out of commission, Keith’s options are limited. He takes a decisive step towards him, starting to bend down, intent on scooping the man over his shoulder—

Only for the Blue Bandit to take a half-scrambling, half-stumbling step away, eyes wide as his hands are thrown up defensively. “Hey, whoa whoa, _hey_. What do you think you’re doing?”

Keith blinks at him, frozen in an awkward half-bent state. Slowly, he frowns, straightening back up. “You’re hurt,” he repeats.

Because honestly, isn’t it obvious? He’s hurt. Keith is strong. They’re supposed to be lovers. Why wouldn’t he carry him? Keith might hate thinking, but even this thought process seems easy enough to follow.

The man only lifts one brow, the rest of his expression dropping into something unamused and blank. “Yeah? So…?” He says dryly. “We’ve already established that, _your grace_.”

Keith’s lip curls, nose wrinkling. “The royal suite is across the castle. On the fourth floor.”

The man blanches. Just a subtle tension flickering across his features. Eyes widening and lips pursing. Still, he holds his ground, shifting his weight to his uninjured leg and crossing his arms over his chest. “So? I’ll be fine.”

“You’re limping,” Keith bites out, gritting his teeth in his annoyance. Why doesn’t he _get it?_ “I’m not going to let you hobble across the whole castle.”

His head tilts, a sneer sliding across his lips as he says, “What a _gentleman_.” Dripping with sugary sweet pleasantries, rotting from an under-layer of sarcasm.

Keith’s fists clench, irritation prickling like needles beneath his skin. He feels the eyes of his guards on him, bringing a heated flush to the back of his neck. This is a mess… it’s all a mess… and it’s a mess that people are _witness_ to.

And Keith… is not an eloquent man. When words fail him— when he struggles to express his thoughts and reasoning— when he gets frustrated with trying— he resorts to actions.

Actions speak louder than words, after all. Kolivan taught him that.

So instead of dignifying the man with an answer, Keith mades another grab for him. Quicker this time. Taking a harsh step forward and reaching for him— and would have gotten him if he had both arms available.

As it stands, however, Keith can only grab onto him with one hand, and the Blue Bandit yelps and wriggles away, stumbling backwards with a sharp glare in his eyes, an angry flush on his cheeks, and a scowl on his lips.

“Hey— _No!_ Excuse you, _your majesty_ , but I will _not_ be manhandled!”

“Just let me pick you up!” Keith snaps, voice raising and words sharp with frustration.

He hears the shuffle of his guards, but the Blue Bandit doesn’t even flinch. “Not like— like _that!_ ”

“Why not?”

“You were about to throw me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes!” His voice gets loud, pitched high in his indignation. Keith has the decency to feel a little sheepish at the accusation… but not enough to let it show. Especially not when the man takes a step closer, crowding into his space to hiss an angry, “Are you insane? It’s undignified! You’re supposed to be a _king_.”

There’s a familiar bubbling in his gut. A nauseating cocktail of uncertainty, shame, and defensive anger. It makes him stiffen, rising to his full height and relaxing his face into smooth stone as he shrugs. “I’m already considered the warrior king,” he says indifferently, keeping the bite out of his words. “No one will think twice if they see me acting like a brute.”

The man’s face twists, scowl compounding… into nearly a pout. When he takes a step closer, putting them toe-to-toe, there’s a pretty flush to his cheeks, coloring right up to the tip of his ears. “Listen here, _your majesty_.” Keith is really starting to hate the way he says that. His words are hissed between clenched teeth, full of venom and dropped low. “If I’m going to be your _royal mistress_ ,” he says with a curl of his lip, like forming the words doesn’t quite feel right on his tongue. “Then you’re going to _treat me like it_ , and not like some common _street whore_.”

Keith meets his glare with one of his own. He’s only an inch or two taller than the other man, but he uses it to loom above him. Shiro has always told him that he has a _presence_ about him. Something large and imposing, powerful even in his silence. He’s told it’s as intimidating as it is awe inspiring, useful for both frightening his enemies and rallying his allies.

He’s not sure which category this man falls under, but he does think he sees a flickering of doubt dance across the blue depths of his eyes.

And— and Keith is surprised by how much he doesn’t like that.

Still, he stands his ground. Because that’s all he’s known to do when backed into a corner. Even if he was the one to put himself in it.

“Then what do you suggest?” He asks dryly, keeping his voice hushed and private. He lifts the arm that’s wrapped up in a sling just enough to draw his attention before letting it fall back to rest. “I can’t exactly cradle you in my arms.”

The Blue Bandit’s eyes narrow, lips pressing into a thin line as his gaze flickers up and down, taking Keith in. He then glances to the side, eyes roaming as he thinks. Keith can see the moment an idea strikes him. The clarity and excitement that briefly flickers across his face before his expression settles into something sly.

He… doesn’t much like that either.

His eyes narrow as their gazes lock once more, and he leans back warily. “What?”

The man merely grins, boyish and impish, wrapped into a mischievous package. “Turn around.”

“Excuse me?”

“Turn around,” he repeats, edges of that smirk widening. “And bend over.”

“What are you—“

“Carry me on your back.”

The indignant rage dies on his tongue, replaced by irritation. “I can’t hold you,” he says, lifting his arm once more and hating that he has to explain this at all.

But the Blue Bandit waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.” His smile is cheeky and smug. Keith isn’t sure how he feels about it, but he decides the confusion is enough for him to hate it. _Especially_ when the man winks. “My legs are strong enough to hold me up.”

Keith blinks, caught off guard and uncertain where to go from here. That smug look is enough to make Keith want to refuse him on principle, but… he stands by his initial decision that he can’t make the man walk the entire way. And if he can’t hold him in his arms, and he won’t let Keith carry him over his shoulder… he has little choice.

He catches the eye of some of the guards lingering, scowling until they flinch, straighten, and look away.

As he turns his back to the Blue Bandit, he sighs through his nose. “Fine.” He crouches down, waiting… and then looks over his shoulder when nothing immediately happens. “Come on, then.”

The man just stares at him, cocky grin wiped clean as he blinks. “Oh… that was—“ He clears his throat, collecting himself. “That was a lot easier than I thought it would be.”

Keith just glares. “Would you hurry up?”

He snorts a derisive scoff. “What? Impatient to get me to your rooms, your majesty?”

“Yes,” he says, short and clipped. There’s an amused sense of satisfaction at the way the man’s face crumbles to something surprised, embarrassed, and flustered— before he visibly picks up the shattered remains of his mask and desperately tries to stitch them back together.

“Right. Right, I’ll just… get on then…” He clears his throat once more, shuffling forward. “Time to mount a king,” he tries with wavering bravado.

Keith just huffs, short and unamused. Rolling his eyes, he turns away, biting his tongue as the Blue Bandit hesitates. It takes a moment of awkward deliberation to figure it out. Keith’s decorative cape gets in the way, needing to be rolled and twisted over his shoulder.

Keith will admit, he’s never really carried anyone like this before. Not without the heat of a battle at his heels or the exhaustion that comes in the wake of victory settling in his veins. He’s carried wounded soldiers from the field, and he’s carried injured or scared civilians away from the mayhem.

Though the Blue Bandit _is_ hurt, he’s never just… carried someone so casually.

And so it’s awkward for the both of them as the man settles on his back, wrapping arms around Keith’s shoulders and legs around his waist. He inhales sharply as Keith abruptly stands, mostly unbothered by the added weight. He has to adjust his balance, but as for handling the weight, he’s fine.

His free hand holds onto the man’s locked ankles, his forearm hooked under a knee. It’s not much support, but it’s the most he can do.

Fortunately, the man was right about his legs— and arms, honestly— being strong enough to cling to Keith as one might a tree.

Unfortunately, Keith finds it hard to think of much else besides the strong, muscular thighs clenching around his waist.

This was a terrible idea. But like all of Keith’s terrible ideas, he’s determined to see it through.

The walk through the castle is long and torturous.

The added weight isn’t a problem, nor is keeping the man on his back. The _problem_ is that there’s a sturdy and warm chest pressed flush against his back, bobbing a little with every step he takes. Long, lean legs wrap around him, and every minute that passes has Keith marveling over the sheer strength it takes it keep holding himself like that. When Keith gets to the stairs, he even takes them a little roughly, purposefully jarring the man on his back just to see if his position will slip.

It doesn’t. His thighs flex around Keith’s sides, and he doesn’t budge an inch.

It’s as _infuriating_ as it is fascinating.

Perhaps the _worst_ part, however, is that the Blue Bandit keeps _drawing attention to them_. It’s not enough that the king is walking through the halls with a known bandit on his back— a position that’s extremely informal and oddly intimate. After declaring that same bandit to be his official royal mistress— gossip which would spread like _wildfire_ on a normal day, let alone in the middle of a _celebration_.

No, it’s not enough that all eyes are already on them as they walk through the halls.

The man has to make eye contact with them all and _call out to them_.

 _”Hey, there. How’re you?”_ and “ _That looks amazing. You’re doing a great job!_ ” and “ _Oh, that looks delicious! Can you have some sent up to the king’s rooms? That’s where we’re going.”_

On the upper levels, they only pass servants and guards. They try to be subtle about staring, eyes down and bowing as he passes. But then the man on his back speaks to them and gives them free rein to gawk and stare, startled and surprised to be addressed.

“Must you do that?” Keith grumbles lowly.

He immediately regrets speaking when he feels the warm puffs of air on the back of his neck. Even more so when a low, smooth voice whispers _far_ too close to his ear, causing his hair to stand on end and a shiver to rake down his spine. He hadn’t realized how sensitive that spot is, but the man’s voice against his skin feels like the vibrations of a harp running straight down to his toes.

“Why? Does it annoy you?” The man asks, voice rich and honeyed, lilted on the edge with amusement.

“Yes.”

“Good. All the more reason to continue.”

“You’re doing this to annoy me?” Keith asks, incredulous.

“No, I’m doing this because people are _staring at us_ , and it’s awkward to ignore them. I hope you know that your _royal mistress_ is anything but shy. If it annoys you, it’s just a bonus. I’m still mad at you.”

“I’m trying to _help you!_ ” Keith hisses, jaw clenched as the man’s breath makes goosebumps rise on his flesh.

“When I said don’t let them hang me, I didn’t mean _take me to bed_.” The words are biting and bitter, a hint of that venom that Keith has gotten a taste of before. A sharp intensity that Keith is starting to wonder if he should fear.

“I didn’t— that’s not— I was trying—“ Keith flounders. A million thoughts swirling, all fighting to be voiced, to be heard, to _explain_. Yet all of them get caught in his throat. Suffocated and dying on his tongue.

How does he explain what he meant? What he wants?

 _Words_ , Shiro would say. _You need to use your words Keith._

Yeah, well… words have never been Keith’s strong suit or his ally.

He snaps his mouth shut, lips pursed tight as the man on his back scoffs in his ear. Irritation and frustration weave beneath his skin, hot and bubbling, prickling along his veins. _That_ , at least, is more familiar territory. He can understand being angry. Being annoyed at his own inability to express his thoughts properly. At how hard it is to get others to see what he means from actions alone.

So he holds onto that irritation. It’s easier to deal with than whatever else is settling in his gut— low, heated, and twisting.

When they finally reach his rooms, one of the guards hurries forward to open the door for them. Keith nods his thanks, curt and clipped as he says, “Make sure my orders to have the adjacent rooms readied are followed through.”

“Yes, your grace.”

He steps into the royal suite, kicking the heavy door shut behind him. The muted _thud_ of it closing echoes with a sense of finality. Sealing whatever chaos he’s just brought upon himself. Leaves them in silence that rings in his ears and squeezes in on his chest.

He walks briskly to the couches. Two of them, situated in the center of his private sitting room. Facing each other with a short table between them. He steps up to one, turns his back on it, and unceremoniously dumps the Blue Bandit onto its cushions.

Only then, with the warm weight gone from his back, does Keith feel like he can breathe. He steps over to the opposite couch, falling onto it with a sigh. Legs spread wide and back slouched, he tilts his head back, eyes slipping closed.

Now that things are quieting down and he’s not distracted by the body pressed against his own, his headache is coming back. It had been easy to ignore in the moment— caught up in adrenaline and trying to stay afloat in the wake of his own impulsive decisions. But now the pain comes back with a vengeance. Pulsing at his temples and behind his eyes.

His stomach twists and churns, a sickly sort of nausea that makes his heated skin feel clammy.

Now that he’s in his rooms, away from the festivities… he can feel his body giving way— that last bit of strength and poise he had crashing down around him.

He gets a blissful thirty seconds to simply sit there and try to stave off the compounding ache before he hears a pointed cough.

Eyes flickering open, he doesn’t bother to lift his head as he glares at the man across from him. Sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. Glaring at Keith. Lips pursed into a frown. When their eyes meet, one eyebrow lifts expectantly.

And it pisses Keith off.

“What?” He snaps, wincing against a throb behind his eyes.

“Just waiting to hear an explanation, _your majesty_ ,” he says, voice dripping in barbed sarcasm and coated in a thick layer of pointed irritation that has Keith bristling, the pain in his head radiating to the base of his skull.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) Deny_

_**2) Deflect** _

_3) Ignore_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The Blue Bandit looks ready to fight, all puffed up and ready to spit venom. Keith doesn’t want to argue. Doesn’t think he’d be able to articulate much of anything, let alone remain rational with the throbbing radiating behind his eyes. For a moment, he debates simply remaining silent. Ignoring him and letting him rant and rave until the fires die out and hopefully shed some light amongst the dying embers.

Despite how much Keith struggles with words, he also struggles to stay silent when he’s backed into a corner with no where to run— and if they hadn’t already been in his royal suite, he might just have done that.

But he dug this hole, and now he has to deal with it. That’s what a king should be capable of.

Unfortunately, this is… not something Keith feels equipped to talk about. He’d like to blame his upbringing. He’d like to blame his concussion. He’d like to blame the nervousness that prickles across his skin and twists his stomach in knots.

Because what if he made the wrong call? What if this was a bad idea? What if, for once, Keith’s gut has steered him wrong and everything he’s worked for will crumble? What if this man isn’t his savior, but his downfall. And he just invited the man to his bed and into his politics—

And the Blue Bandit is just _staring at him_. Pretty blue eyes sharp and watchful and determined to pick Keith apart—

Keith’s hand snaps out, reaching for one of the ornate pillows that decorate the corners of the couch. They’re velvet, beautifully embroidered, but overall uncomfortable. Stuffed too full and feeling far too stiff to use as an actual pillow. Ignoring the heat prickling at the back of his neck and the pain radiating within his skull, Keith unceremoniously throws the pillow at the other man.

He lets out an indignant squawk, and Keith sees a flash of wide eyes and a gaping mouth before it’s all flailing limbs. He _does_ manage to catch the pillow before it hits him in the face, but it’s far from graceful. And when he lowers it to his lap, his scowl is as fierce as his cheeks are red— though Keith can’t parse through it enough to determine if he’s flushed from anger or embarrassment.

He doesn’t think it really matters. It’s a pretty look on him all the same.

Keith settles back down again, trying to melt into the couch as his eyes slip closed once more. “Prop your ankle up,” he mumbles by way of explanation. “Elevation helps.”

The room is silent for a moment, and Keith finds himself holding his breath— but then there’s a soft shuffling. When he peeks between his lashes, the man has set the pillow on the short table and propped his ankle atop it. He settles back against the couch, arms crossed and clearly not pleased.

But at least he’s not yelling. Keith isn’t sure he could take yelling right now. His own temper is fit to snap, worn thin and frayed from the ache within his skull, frustration at his broken arm, and days of non-stop socialization where he’s been forced to be constantly conscious of every aspect of his own behavior.

He’s _tired_ , and he knows from experience that it’s not a state he should try being diplomatic in. The longer he can put off this conversation— preferably until the morning when he’s had time to rest and think on it— the better.

“How bad is it?” He asks.

“What?”

“Your ankle. How bad is it?”

The man scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Do I look like a healer?”

“No, but I’m willing to bet you’ve seen enough injuries as an outlaw to be able to tell.”

There’s a brief pause. “Okay, fair point.” He huffs and grumbles, “It’s not that bad. Twisted at the most.”

Keith nods— only to immediately wince when his head throbs with the movement, eyes scrunching tighter where they’re already closed. He allows himself to let out a hissed breath, lifting a hand to press his fingertips to his forehead.

“What, uh… what about you?” His irritation is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it’s overlaid with a begrudging concern. Though Keith isn’t sure if it’s genuine or purely obligation. Still, he’ll take it over shouting. “Does your arm hurt?”

“Arm’s fine,” Keith grumbles. “Head is killing me.”

“Oh…” It’s soft— subdued in a strange way that Keith has a hard time interpreting. “Concussion?”

Keith huffs, short and sharp. “Obviously. I hit my head falling out of a tree.” It comes out more pointed than anticipated, and he snaps his mouth shut, jaw clenched— which just makes his temples throb all the more.

“Right.” It’s stiff. Hardened. Closed off with any shred of that wavering guilt gone. Keith can hear him shift, restless and agitated. “I’m still waiting on an explanation, by the way. And it better be good. I’m still mad at you, and if you expect me to come crawling into your bed just because you’re the king—“

“I don’t!” His eyes snap open, immediately narrowing against the glow from the sconces around his room.

It’s a low, warm light, but it still feels like so much. It feels like needles at the back of his eyes, and he wants nothing more than to put them all out. To thrive in darkness. His face scrunches up against the ache as he holds the Blue Bandit’s gaze, fierce and determined.

“I am _not_ taking you to bed.” He’s perhaps a little too sharp in delivery and a little too aggressive in his denial. Heat prickles at the back of his neck, all the way up to his ears. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, and now that it has— _no_. No, he hadn’t meant to _actually_ make the man his lover.

It’s just an arrangement. Beneficial to both parties. And has absolutely nothing to do with his objective attractiveness and the heat that rushes southward at the thought of the man splayed out across his sheets.

The man’s eyes narrow, chin lifting as he glares down his nose at Keith. “I should probably be relieved, and yet I feel a little insulted.”

“I’m not interested in a lover,” Keith says, hard and indifferent. “And you’re not my type.” A low blow, perhaps, and Keith’s pounding heart might say otherwise—

“What?” The man scoffs. “Handsome? Charming? Quick-witted? Able to keep you from hurting yourself?”

Keith crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head back and closing his eyes once more. Dismissive in posture and grateful for the low lighting that no doubt hides his flush. “Vain. Arrogant. Cocky. Reckless. Selfish. Greedy—“

“You don’t know _anything_ about me.” It’s spat with such venom that Keith lifts his head, squinting against the light to meet the man’s sharp glare. Both feet are on the floor again, and he’s sitting up straight. “And if you can’t see past the bandit Zarkon’s men labeled me as, then I have no idea why you’ve gone through such lengths to _save me_ , or whatever it is that you think you’re doing.”

“You should keep your ankle—“

“Pardon me, _your grace_ ,” he says dryly. “But permission to speak frankly?”

Keith resists the urge to roll his eyes, if only because he’s certain it would make his head spin. “When have you ever needed it before?”

“Good point.” He nods once, then pushes himself to his feet. He uses the new height to loom over Keith, leaning one hand on the arm of the couch and keeping weight off his injured foot. “With all due respect, _your majesty_ —“

“Keith.”

The man falters— pauses— the fire burning in his eyes becoming subdued in his confusion— blinks in surprise before dumbly saying, “What?”

Keith purses his lips, jaw set and tension throbbing in his temples as he bites out. “ _Keith_. Call me Keith when we’re alone,” he says stiffly, anger covering for how awkward he feels. “I don’t care for formalities.”

Another pause— perhaps thoughtful this time— before the man says flatly, “Fine.” The fire is back. Not raging, bold and bright, but simmering behind his gaze, burning in how he holds his chin high and his back straight. “ _Keith_ , then. I appreciate you saving me from the noose, but I am _not_ staying here. I will not be your mistress. I’m not sharing your bed—“

“I never asked you to!”

“You sure as hell didn’t ask me to be your mistress either! You just— just _announced_ it!”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Keith snaps, heart hammering and fire raging in his veins. His head throbs with every beat of his heart. He refuses to stand, but he doesn’t think he needs to. The man still shifts under his glare. “I thought you were long gone, and then you come crashing into me with the guard on your heels!”

“You could have, I don’t know, _pardoned me?_ ”

Keith’s lips twist into a sneer. “ _You’re_ the one who said I couldn’t do that without hurting my reputation.”

The man’s face scrunches, lip curling with distaste as his nose wrinkles. “And you think being the _king’s mistress_ is any better? Have you thought about how _that_ will look when I leave and start stirring shit up again?”

Keith steels himself, going stiff in his attempt not to squirm. “You could just… _not_.” He definitely doesn’t huff. He _bites_ back the urge to. The pain from his tight jaw rolls down his spine in waves. His stomach rolls unpleasantly. A sweat breaks out across his skin.

He fucking hates it, wants nothing more to just lay down and deal with everything tomorrow— or in a week— but he refuses to back down from the Blue Bandit’s glare.

The man scoffs, lips curling into a sardonic grin. “Just not _what?_ Just not go back to the people who are counting on me? Just not provide for the families that rely on me to survive? Just give up, live in this castle, share your bed, and forget about the people I swore to protect? Hate to break it to you,” he says with a laugh that suggests little remorse. “But I have _no_ intention of staying.”

Keith works his jaw, teeth grinding, a bubbling irritation and desperation clawing up his throat— choking him— rendering him incapable of finding words because _too many_ thoughts are vying for attention. _Too many_ things to say— to correct— to rebuff— that nothing at all comes out. Rendered speechless by that sharp gaze and mocking smirk.

Keith isn’t a fool, but he has his pride. And he refuses to resort to _begging_. Not when he’s already feeling like his chest has been ripped open and heart left bleedingly bare whenever this man smiles. It’s not a vulnerability he can stomach.

His head hurts too much for him to think of the right thing to say, but he knows he has to say _something_. Anything. Just enough to make the man pause and _think_ and maybe _listen_ as Keith stumbles through a desperate explanation, trying to piece together his impulsive thoughts in a way that doesn’t make it sound like a terrible idea—

Though as he opens his mouth to speak— uncertain what would have come out— there’s a knock at the door.

Both of them startle, going tense. Keith’s voice dies on his tongue, and the Blue Bandit’s eyes snap to the door.

“Your majesty?” Comes a soft, timid voice through the doors. Not a guard then.

Keith forces himself to sit up, gritting his teeth as his head spins. It’s dizzying, making his stomach flip and bile burn at his throat. He twists on the couch, putting a hand on the back of it as he turns to face the door. He clears his throat, closing his eyes briefly to will the room to stop spinning. “Come in,” he says, pleased when it comes out disgruntled but steady.

The large doors open, and a servant steps into the room. She curtsies deeply, keeping her eyes down as she smoothes out her skirts. “The, um… the royal mistress’s rooms are prepared. A bath has been drawn and food has been delivered.”

She risks a glance at Lance, eyes wide and awed, more curious than she is surprised.

Which Keith just takes to mean the gossip is already spreading. Fantastic.

“Thank you. You can—“

“Show me to my rooms,” the Blue Bandit finishes for him. Flashing the startled woman a charming smile. “I think it’s time I retire for the evening.” He turns back to Keith, giving him a bow that’s absolutely perfect in form, and yet somehow still manages to be sassy. Perhaps it’s in his smirk, curling with layered sarcasm. “Good night, my king.”

He moves to walk away, favoring his injured ankle— and Keith’s hand darts out as he passes by the couch, catching him by the wrist and pulling him to a stop.

The man glares down at him, but Keith meets it with an unshakable scowl.

And for a moment… all they do is stare, tension rolling off them in waves.

“Please,” Keith grits out, voice barely a whisper, hissing between clenched teeth. “Just… stay.”

Something hardens in the Blue Bandit’s eyes. “Are you going to force me to stay? Put guards at my door? Keep me under lock and key?”

Keith’s stomach lurches, heart in his throat at the thought— “ _No_ , of course not, but— I just— I _need you_ —“

Fingers— long and dexterous, strong and calloused— reach for Keith’s hand, gently but firmly peeling his grip away from the man’s wrist.

“You have plenty of willing bodies to warm your bed,” he says, voice low and private, almost… weary. Almost… apologetic? Keith isn’t sure. He’s never been good at reading people outside of combat. When he meets the man’s eyes again, the anger and irritation are gone, but they’re no less hard. No less resolved. The fire is still there. “I already have enough targets on my back. I don’t need more. Don’t expect me to stay.” He hobbles backwards a step, out of Keith’s reach, inclining his head and offering a two finger salute. In a low murmur, he says, “After all, the Blue Lion _always_ escapes.”

He turns and limps out of the room, the servant curtsying to him as he passes before shutting the door behind them.

Leaving Keith alone.

The silence rings loudly in his ears. The stillness of the room prickles like needles against his skin. With nothing but an ache in his arm, a throbbing in his skull, and regrets churning and clawing within his chest… Keith groans, falling back on the couch and rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“ _Fuck_.”

As much as he hates thinking, he thinks he hates talking more.

Some king he turned out to be.

* * *

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) Sneak to the kitchens for a midnight snack and a hot drink_

**_2) Slip down to the royal hot springs for a long soak_ **

_3) Go for a walk in the gardens for some fresh air_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

* * *

As tired as he is, sleep is near impossible to find.

It’s illusive, slipping through his fingers like smoke. Whenever he thinks he gets close to falling into that dark, quiet sanctuary that is unconsciousness— something happens. A sound. An itch. A throb within his skull. An ache pulsing from his arm. And then he’s wide awake.

The frustration that builds every time he’s woken up. Making him more and more hyper aware of how close he is to sleep, which of course just makes it harder to reach. It builds like a living thing, prickling and heated beneath his skin, writhing in his chest like flickering flames.

To make matters worse, Keith can’t stop _thinking_.

His mind is lit up with memories, running through the past day _over and over_. A nonstop dredge through regret, uncertainty, and flustered embarrassment. With a healthy dash of mortification at the fact that despite everything— all the doubt and frustration at how he handled the whole situation— he can’t stop thinking about the curve of the Blue Bandit’s nose and the spark in his eyes when he smirks. His confidence is _magnetic_ , and Keith is helpless to the pull.

That doesn’t, however, cancel out his worries. His _what-if’s_. His thoughts on how he could have done it better— what he could have said— what he could have or _should have_ done.

He can’t help but think anyone else would have handled this better.

Anyone else wouldn’t even _need_ a fucking _bandit_ to rule better.

But the fact remains that Keith _didn’t_ handle it well, and he _does_ think he needs a bandit at his side to strengthen his rule.

What a fucking _mess_. He’s a mess. His life is a mess. Nothing has made sense since his ascension to the throne. War made sense. Battles made sense. His goals and decisions and direction _made sense_. But now… all of that is gone, and Keith feels _lost_. Nothing makes sense anymore, and the more he tries, the more mistakes he makes.

With irritation simmering in his veins, Keith rolls onto his back with a huff, glaring at the vaulted stone ceiling of his room. He wonders if there were times when his parents couldn’t sleep. When the weight of the kingdom felt too heavy on their shoulders. Did they stare at the ceiling the same as he’s doing now?

The bed he lays in isn’t the same one from his childhood. Zarkon had burned his parents’ furniture in the town square. As a warning. As a symbol. Keith had thought of doing the same, but… it wasn’t practical. Instead, he had given all of Zarkon’s furniture to the Blade to do with as they wished.

The first month of his reign had been spent in barren rooms as he waited for his own things to be made. He didn’t mind sleeping on the floor. It wasn’t the first time. But he hated the way the rooms echoed.

His bed is new, but he had it made as closely to his parents’ bed as he could. Having gone so far as to commission the same family of carpenters. He had put it in the exact same spot he remembers from his childhood. He likes to pretend that the bed isn’t new. That the sheets aren’t new. That this is the bed that his mother passed on to him. It makes him feel closer to her.

He wonders what she would think of him.

As he took the throne, he had been so certain that she would be proud. But now… now he’s not so sure.

With a sharp sigh, he throws back the blankets, practically hurling himself from the bed. He has to pause once he’s on his feet, leaning against the mattress as his head spins and closing his eyes as the stinging pricks behind his temples.

When it’s finally settled, he grabs a pair of pants laying around, not bothering to lace them up and letting them hang loosely on his hips. A shirt is next, haphazard, untucked, and smelling faintly of sweat. He pulls on a robe, rich material that he hates the elegance of but loves the sensation against his skin. He doesn’t bother to tame his hair, nor does he bother with shoes.

He pauses before deciding not to take up his sling. Instead, he simply lets his arm hang limp at his side beneath his robe.

It’s the middle of the night, and he doesn’t care if any of the servants or guards see his disheveled appearance. It wouldn’t be the first time. It won’t be the last. He has no reputation to tarnish, anyway.

He leaves his room, pace quick and confident as his bare feet pad along the flagstones. He resolutely avoids looking at the door near his room at he passes. The one that leads to the royal suite attached to his own. A queen’s suite. Sometimes a mistress’s suite. Currently, the Blue Bandit’s suite.

He ignores the guards he passes. Doesn’t spare a glance for the servants. They’re few and far between. He keeps his head held high and doesn’t allow his pace to falter. He marches past, headed for the staircase at the far end of the royal halls. A staircase that spirals down and down, without stopping at the other floors.

Straight through the belly of the castle into the earth itself. Past the bedrock that the castle sits atop of. It’s a long spiral, steps uneven and chipped. He keeps his unbroken hand to the wall, for balance and guidance as he descends. The rough stone beneath his fingertips is an odd sort of comfort.

There are no guards here. There are no servants. Few dare to enter. For the hot springs beneath the castle are for the royal family only.

The temperature doesn’t cool as he follows the steps beneath the castle. It rises. Grows warm and humid, thick with moisture.

The narrow staircase opens out into a large, natural cavern. The slick stone is warm beneath his bare feet, and his toes curl against the thin layer of wet dirt. The cavern is uneven, domed ceiling and floor jagged with stalactites and stalagmites.

Water drips softly, creating a chorus that lays atop the soft bubbling from the spring.

It’s pitch black, but Keith can see just fine.

The dark water laps gently against the rough stone about halfway across the cavern. The inky surface disappears into a tunnel at the back of the cavern, spreading throughout the natural cave system that lays beneath the castle.

He’s never followed the hot spring tunnels that far, but he knows from experience that the cave system in general reaches well into the mountains. It’s a royal family secret, held only by their blood and those they trust the most.

It’s how Kolivan and the Blades had manages to escape with him after Zarkon attacked the castle.

He drops his robe as he walks toward the water, shedding his shirt and pants along the way. The water here is warm, but bearable. No more than the hot baths they draw in the royal suite. He steps into it, careful of the mud-slick stones beneath his feet. The inky darkness envelops him. Warm and comforting. A soothing balm on his aching body. Calming the nerves that buzz beneath his skin. Easing the ache in his arm.

Even his head feels lighter as the tension melts away from his body.

Standing there, water up to his waist, Keith feels at peace for the first time in days. Here in the belly of the earth, surrounded by stone and heat, he feels… protected. Safe. Distant from the pressures and worries of his royal life. His pain feels dull, wrapped up in a blanket of warmth that soothes and relaxes.

His mother used to say that these springs hold healing properties. He never believed her as a child, but now he truly wonders if that had been more than a fairy tale.

He takes a moment to simply… breathe. To close his eyes and merely _exist_. To lose himself in the comfort of the hot springs.

He has faint memories of his parents here. Distant ones, foggy with time and incomplete from a child’s mind. He remembers spending time with them both here. How they used to bring food and desserts, setting them on dry rock. Sharing. Laughing. Private and safe. His father used to play music that echoed throughout the cavern, his voice a haunting melody, ethereal in the way it resounded off the stone. He remembers his mother being transfixed by it, smile small and eyes fond.

He remembers how they used to play here in the waters, but he also remembers how his mother used to take him in her arms and lead him deeper into the cave system. Through the tunnels where the water became too hot for his father to handle. Where only those of their bloodline could venture without harm.

He follows that path now. Steps slow, steady, and careful. The water rises to his ribs as he reaches the tunnel. He can already feel the temperature rising.

The one time he had seen his father come this far, he had said that it was hard to breathe. It had left his body red and blistered and raw.

But while Keith feels the rising heat, he isn’t bothered by it. His body absorbs the heat, relishes in it. He feels a tingle across his skin, but his flesh doesn’t burn. Even as he goes deeper and deeper through the cave system— following a path that his mother had shown him when he was young— and the water boils around him, he feels nothing but comfort.

The steam becomes thick, rising from the water’s surface and shrouding the tunnels. Keith’s father had once said steam made it hard for him to breathe, but Keith has never understood. It’s refreshing, in a way. His lungs revel in the heat as much as the rest of him.

And he knows his mother was the same way. As she carried him through the tunnels, she had breathed deeply, sighing contently, tension melting out of her as she smiled.

The hot springs were one of the only places he ever saw his mother truly relax, far from her royal duties and shrouded in fog.

He wonders if she, too, ever got overwhelmed by her duties. If she ever felt the weight of her responsibilities like a stone crushing her chest. If she ever had trouble _thinking too much_. If her mind ever ran circles around every decision, even as she carried out her commands with a stern, confident, and unyielding expression.

He wonders if she was just like him.

He wishes he could know her as he never got to.

It’s easy to lose track of time in the belly of the earth. It ceases to have meaning here in the hot springs. Here where nothing can touch him. He follows the long, twisting path. The tunnels branch out, curling and coiling in a maze. But Keith knows the way.

He’s been here several times since he ascended to the throne, chasing after memories and trying to find the strength to be who his mother wanted him to become.

He pauses when he reaches the cavern. A dead end cave at the end of the maze. It’s large, though not as big as the entrance. The ceiling is vaulted high, and Keith thinks it might be beneath one of the surrounding mountains. The inky black water here bubbles and rolls, playfully tickling his naked flesh. The stones beneath his feet are hot enough to prickle, even if they don’t sting.

The water ends shortly after the tunnel, coming abruptly against a shelf of smooth, black stone. If it weren’t for the bubbling water, Keith wouldn’t be able to see where one stopped and the other began.

Atop the shelf of stone sits a pedestal of the same smooth, black rock. As if it had once been liquid and it had been grabbed, pulled, and twisted into a shape from the earth itself.

At the top of the spiral of stone is a bowl-like divot. One that cradles a red gemstone, nearly the size of his head. From his position at the mouth of the tunnel, Keith can’t see the stone. But he knows it’s there. He can see the red pulsing of it, an ember-like glow that casts flickering shadows of flames dancing across the black stone cave.

The namesake of his bloodline.

The power behind their legacy.

The gift that granted his ancestors their throne, their strength, and their fire.

The Dragonheart.

He feels it. Feels it calling for him. Feels the heat radiating from it, singing playfully across his cheeks. He feels the tug in his chest. The excited vibrations in his veins. His breath catches in his lungs, and his heart hammers in his throat. His entire being is called forward. The heart begs to be claimed. It sings to him, and yet—

He remains exactly where he is. Body frozen just within the mouth of the cave.

His mother once brought him here. She told him that one day, they would make this journey together. That she would pass the heart on to him when it was his turn to rule.

She had no idea what would come to pass. Had no idea that her half brother would take her life and her throne. Had no idea that she wouldn’t be around when it came time for Keith to claim the power behind his birthright. Had no idea that she wouldn’t be there to take his hand and reassure him when his doubts feel like they’re pressing the air from his lungs.

She had no idea that Keith would be alone, and that he would be too frightened to lay claim to the Dragonheart.

Because… he doesn’t feel worthy of it. Not yet. Not while his rule is still shaky and he has no confidence in what he’s doing. And especially not now, when he’s come to realize that… things need to change. That he needs to find a way to take an active role. That he can’t just be a passive king, no matter how daunting the task might seem.

It’s almost laughable that all it took was a bandit who didn’t even know his face to make him face the very doubts, insecurities, and worries that he’s been running from for the past year.

As he stares at the Dragonheart, glow pulsing in the darkness, he feels something settle inside him. A resolve that hardens around his fraying nerves. A steel that solidifies where he had once been consumed with doubt.

Things have to change. _He_ has to change. He has to make his mother proud. Then— and _only_ then— will he take up the power of the Dragonheart.

For now, he wants to prove that he can rule without it. That he’s worthy enough to take it. And… he wants to make sure that he’s strong enough that he won’t be corrupted by its power as Zarkon was.

Keith turns his back on the soft ember glow, wading back through the tunnels and into the darkness.

His father once told him that everyone makes mistakes, but his mother told him that what makes a king is his ability to take responsibility for them.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he’ll go to the Blue Bandit. He’ll explain himself and ask for the man’s help properly. And he’ll… he’ll learn the man’s damn _name_.

* * *

Keith wakes the next morning feeling… better.

His sheets are silken against his bare skin. He’s sunken into his mattress— it had taken him a long time to get used to such a soft bed but now he’s grateful for it. The sun shines brightly, but while he squints against it, the pain in his head has retreated to a dull ache. There’s a vague pain in his arm, but it’s barely noticeable.

And more than that, as he stares at the high ceiling of his bedroom, his mind feels… lighter. The indecisiveness and doubts that usually weigh him down have dissipated like steam in the tunnels of the hot spring.

He’s already made his decision for his next course of action, and the resolution of what he needs to do still feels like steel in his chest. Glinting like battle armor. Like a sword, ready to face the problem of his rule as king head on.

The first step? Speak with the Blue Bandit— the Blue Lion? Whatever.

Keith rises— for the first time in a long time— ready to face the day. He washes up, tames his hair, and gets dressed with the same sort of precision and focused intensity as he uses to prepare for battle. He makes himself look nice and presentable, going so far as to wear his father’s signet ring. He wants to look his best— as regal as he can, even if the man had seen him running around the woods like an idiot— when he presents the Blue Bandit with his proposal.

He stands in front of the mirror, and despite his lack of a crown and the fact that his arm is in a sling… he dares to think he looks like a king.

When he steps from his room, the royal hall is empty. He takes a deep breath, calming his nerves and settling his twisting stomach.

 _Patience Yields Focus_.

He feels his body relax. Settling and steeling. Standing taller. Chin held high. Shoulders back. He exhales from his nose and opens his eyes. Ready to face this. Ready to face _him_.

He walks up to the door next to his own and knocks, three times, hard and sharp.

He’s prepared. An entire speech and apology on the tip of his tongue. Expression hardened. Eyes focused unblinkingly on the sturdy, elegantly carved wood. Breath held as he waits for it to swing open and to be faced with pretty, sharp features and furious blue eyes.

He waits.

And he waits…

And he… waits?

He frowns, brows pinching as he knocks again. Waits… but still no answer.

He huffs a frustrated sigh. Of course the man would be petty enough to ignore him.

Scowling, he reaches for the handle… only to find it curiously unlocked. He opens the door slowly, taking a cautious step inside. “Hello…?”

He’s met with silence and an empty room.

The suite is much like his own— just as elegant, just as ornate, just as pompous and decadent— but smaller. Fewer places to hide. It’s been a long time since he’s been in this suite, but he doesn’t have time to get caught up in the nostalgia.

Instead, his gaze makes a sweep of the sitting room, frown deepening when he sees no sign of the obnoxious and handsome man. He closes the door behind him with a soft _click_ before he marches through the suite, checking the bedroom, the washroom, and the closets.

Nothing.

Silent and empty.

The bed isn’t even ruffled. The bath that had been drawn for him the night before is still and cold, not a shred of soap to be found. Nothing looks touched. No sign of the man’s clothes or weapons or belongings.

He’s… gone.

Just like he said he would be.

 _The Blue Lion always escapes_.

“Fuck,” Keith mutters, standing in the sitting room. He runs his free hand through his hair, ruining all his effort in his frustration. He tugs at the roots, and while it doesn’t help his vague headache, it somehow helps ground him.

The Blue Bandit is gone— He’s gone and Keith honestly doesn’t know why he’s surprised. But he’s gone, and by now the entire castle and several foreign dignitaries probably know Keith had claimed the man as his mistress, and he’s not _here_ for Keith to explain his plan and his reasoning and apologize—

He hears several sharp knocks, and he freezes. But they’re not coming from the door to this suite. They’re echoing from down the hall. Next door. From his own room.

“Keith?” He hears Shiro’s muffled voice. “It’s me. Are you awake?”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

_1) Stay silent and pretend to be asleep_

_2) Talk to Shiro - but insist that his mistress is still sleeping_

**_3) Talk to Shiro - tell the truth_ **

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Keith’s fingers tighten in his hair, eyes closing as he inhales sharply. His body tenses for just a moment, options flicking through his head, spinning and spiraling and choking—

But then he exhales long and slow, hand running down his face.

He _could_ lie to Shiro. He _could_ avoid him. He _could_ try to take care of this on his own. But… the whole point of bringing the Blue Bandit into this was acknowledging that he doesn’t want to do things alone.

So he should… start here.

“Great,” he mutters, voice muffled by his palm. “Just… _great_.” He takes another stiff breath, quick in and sharply out, hand falling to his side. He scowls at the door, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin. “Come on. You’re a _king_. You’re a _Kogane_. You can do this. It’s just Shiro.” He stomps toward the door, hand hesitating for only a moment on the handle. Only long enough to take another steeling breath and mutter, “It’s just Shiro.”

He steps into the hall with all the confidence he can muster, closing the door to the Queen’s suite silently behind him.

He watches as Shiro turns, brows pulled together in concern— only for them to lift to his hairline as his eyes settle on Keith. He gives him a quick once over, and Keith can see the surprise and confusion settle into his expression. He can’t blame him. Shiro isn’t used to Keith being this well dressed this early. Not without complaints, anyway.

For a several sluggish seconds, they simply stand there, staring in silence as each of them weighs the moment.

Keith is the first to break it. “Hey, Shiro.”

“Keith,” he says with a subtle nod. His head tilts, brows furrowing once more. “You’re… already dressed.”

“Uh… yeah.”

“And… not in your rooms.”

“No.”

“You’re… coming out of the Queen’s suite.”

“Yeah…”

“Where, supposedly, you have… a mistress?” He says it carefully, treading on eggshells. “Who is— again, supposedly— the Blue Bandit?”

Keith sighs, shoulders sagging. “Um, yeah…”

“Keith—“

“Can we just—“ He waves his hand, gesturing toward the door to his own suite.

Shiro purses his lips and nods. He opens the door, stepping inside and holding it open for Keith to trudge in after him. The silence is awkward as they close the door, making sure it’s locked before they settle on the couches in Keith’s private sitting room. Across the short table from one another.

In a strange mimicry of himself and the Blue Bandit last night.

Shiro is dressed in his daily armor, shined to perfection but not overbearingly bulky or extravagant. Just enough that he’s ready to do his job and protect the king if need be. He’s probably seen Shiro in armor more than anything else. Growing up in a war will do that. As will having his childhood friend, protector, and near brother-figure be head of the king’s guard.

Still, despite it being what Keith is used to, he still looks intimidating.

Especially when he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together, eyeing Keith over the steeple of them. “So…” He says, words casual and voice kind. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

Keith shifts his weight, sinking deeper into the couch and crossing his uninjured arm over the other. “What have you heard?”

“A lot, if I’m being honest.” His brows furrow. “But most of it seems contradictory and speculative. At first I was informed that the Blue Bandit had escaped his cell, but then the guards informed me that he was found, and he was your mistress, and by then the gossip had been spreading throughout the castle like wildfire.”

Keith sighs, head falling back against the couch. He stares at the ceiling, lips pursed. “Of course it had.” He had expected no less, really. He’s only been here for a year, but he’s already figured out that rumors of any kind are traded like currency. The noble class seems to have nothing better to do than gossip and chatter. And with a celebration being held, all of those nobles being contained in one space… it was bound to be well known news before Keith even had a chance to contain it.

 _Stupid_. His brows furrow, face twisting into a grimace. _So fucking stupid_. Why did he let this happen? Why did he have to go and be impulsive and open his mouth at all?

 _Blue eyes, wide and terrified, staring up at him with desperate hope that reached deep into his chest and played his heartstrings like a fiddle_.

Keith’s eyes close with a frustrated sigh.

“Keith.” He opens his eyes, glancing warily at Shrio. He eyes Keith with infinite patience, gaze slowly picking apart his defenses until he feels himself crumble. “What’s going on?”

Keith purses his lips, but it only dams the flow for a moment before it all comes spilling out.

He tells Shiro everything. About what really happened in the woods. About how the Blue Bandit spoke to him, treated him, and the disdain he had for the king. He tells him about the conversation they had in the tower. About how he had wanted to let the man go, but the Bandit himself had said it wasn’t a good idea for his kingly reputation. How Keith had given him the key to escape— and he didn’t miss Shiro’s raised brow at learning Keith had given away his treasured lock picks.

He lets his thoughts come tumbling out. His doubts. His half concocted ideas. Using the precedent his parents had made to his advantage. Getting the Blue Bandit to help him, giving him a much needed perspective from someone who wouldn’t coddle him or dance around the subject.

How he needed— _wanted_ — the Blue Bandit’s help, and convinced of this while suddenly shoved into an adrenaline fueled situation— Keith had made an impulsive decision.

He tells Shiro about bringing the man back to his rooms. About their disastrous attempt at a conversation.

About going down to the hot springs the night before.

About steeling his decision.

About waking up to find the Queen’s suite empty and the Blue Bandit gone.

He tries to sound impartial about it all. Tries to remain indifferent and distant. But as the words tumble over his poorly constructed dam, the emotions behind it all damn him instead. They carry his words to Shiro, raw with frustration, self doubt, anger, confusion, and a hint of longing that he desperately wishes he could hide.

And when it’s all said and done, they sit in silence. It rings in Keith’s ears and crawls beneath his skin, restless and itchy. He shifts, uncomfortable, glaring at the table between them while Shiro watches him carefully… quietly… processing…

This time, it’s Shiro who breaks the silence. “If you needed help, why didn’t you come to me?” He asks quietly, carefully neutral. “You know I would have helped you with the council. I’ve been trying to convince you to take an active part in it for the past year.”

“I know,” Keith says with a sigh, eyes squeezing shut and hands curling into fists. “I just— I don’t _know_. I know you’ve been trying to tell me the exact same thing, but he… He’s the one who made it feel _real_. I don’t know _how_ , but he got through to me, and— I just… He seemed like the right person to help me. And I think he’d _want_ to if I just had a chance to explain myself, but…” He heaves a heavy sigh through his nose, looking up at Shiro through his lashes, lips caught between pulling into a grimace and pursing into a pout. “Words are _hard_ , Shiro.”

“I know,” he says gently, offering a smile that’s both comforting and understanding. “I know they are, Keith. You’ve always struggled with it, but that’s never stopped your heart from being in the right place, or your gut from being right.” There’s a glint in his eyes as he leans back, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. His smile tempers, but his cheeks are still lifted with it. “So… what are you going to do now?”

He blinks, mind momentarily blanking. “What?”

Shiro exhales a short laugh through his nose, smile growing. “You’re the _king_ , Keith. I’ll always be here to help you and to give you advice. I can even take the lead when you need me to. But when it comes down to it, you’re the king now. I’ve always trusted your instincts, and that hasn’t changed. Whatever decision you make, I’ll help you.”

It’s a strange thing. A surreal moment. Ever since Zarkon came raining down on their kingdom with fire and bloodshed, forcing Keith to escape with his life, he’s looked up to Shiro. He’s followed Shiro’s lead. Shiro took care of him, protected him, and guided him. He wouldn’t be where he is today without him.

And despite being crowned a year ago, Keith still finds it hard to believe that their roles have been switched.

“I…” He swallows hard. Licks his lips. Gaze drifting downward as his brows furrow. Shiro trusts his _instincts_. He’ll follow what Keith’s gut is saying. So… “I want to find him.” He lifts his head, eyes meeting Shiro’s with a steeled finality. “I need to talk to him.”

Shiro’s smile never falters, but he tilts his head thoughtfully. “Well, then… How do we find the Blue Bandit when he doesn’t want to be found?”

At that, Keith feels his lips tug into a small smirk. “We go to the western woods and let him find us.”

* * *

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

**_1) Shiro goes with him_ **

_2) Shiro stays behind_

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

* * *

“I don’t like this…” Shiro says, yet again.

He’s lost track of how often the man has voiced his concern, and in all honesty, Keith has given up trying to console or soothe him. Nothing he can say will make Shiro feel better about his decision to keep their little trip just between the two of them.

Shiro had wanted to bring more of Keith’s personal guard, but Keith had refused. The more pomp and circumstance they bring into the woods, the less likely that the Blue Bandit will reveal himself. Keith had been debating leaving Shiro behind as well, but Shiro had insisted.

And if he’s being honest, he feels far better about this with Shiro at his back.

They told Kolivan where they were going, but that’s it. Keith’s guard now knows to come looking for them if they’re not back by sundown, but that’s the only precaution he felt comfortable taking. The plan is to go and return with his _mistress_ before anyone even realizes they’re gone.

Besides, he doesn’t think the Blue Bandit will hurt him. At the most, he’ll be held for a ransom, but… Keith really hopes it doesn’t come to that.

He wants the man on his side, and coming alone— for the most part— is his first show of faith.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Shiro asks when Keith keeps his silence.

“No…” He says, all dry, blunt honesty.

He _doesn’t_ know if this is a good idea, but that’s not going to stop him from doing it. His head is too mixed up— too confused— too muddled— tripping over itself as he tries to make sense of pros and cons and weighing options— so his gut is thoroughly leading this expedition.

He just hopes Shiro’s right about trusting his impulsive instincts.

“But you’re determined to see this through?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any way I can change your mind?” There’s a slight lift to his voice. Something exasperated but just left of amused. When Keith glances over his shoulder, he finds Shiro’s lips pinched, just like they do when he’s fighting a smile.

Keith huffs a sharp exhale, nearly a laugh. “No.”

Shiro sighs, making a show of it, shaking his head ruefully. “Alright. There’s no helping it, and we’re already here.” His features settle, steeling as his posture straightens. His chin lifts as his eyes grow sharp, gaze snapping around the forest. It’s a look Keith has seen many times before. Before battle. Before making hard decisions. At war meetings. The face of a knight. “So what now?”

“I’m… not sure,” he admits, eyes narrowing as he takes in the forest around them.

They’re deep into the western woods. Without the slow pace of a procession, just two of them and their trusted horses, they managed to make good time. Riding hard and fast along the main paths. Rumors say that the Blue Bandit and his Lions tend to ambush travelers on these roads, but so far, Keith hasn’t seen head nor tail of anyone.

The forest is eerily silent.

“I think we need to get off the main path,” he finally says, immediately pulling his reins and steering Red towards the trees.

“Are you certain?” While he sounds cautious, he doesn’t hesitate to follow Keith’s lead, urging his large black mount to head after them.

“No, but he’s more likely to show himself when we’re not in the middle of a well used travel road. When he has the cover of trees to his advantage.”

“And you know this because…?”

Keith shrugs. “It’s how I would think as a bandit.” And in a way, he had been. An outlaw. A lost prince. A usurper to the crown, despite the fact that the crown had been stolen through murder and bloodshed.

He weaves through the trees, letting Red walk where she wills as long as it’s away from the main road. He doubts he’ll ever be able to find the man if he doesn’t want to be found. Doubts he’ll ever be able to find their hideout, especially when he’s been wanted for years and never been caught.

But that’s not what he’s after. He simply has to convince him to show himself.

“Blue!” He calls once they’re a good distance from the path. He doesn’t bother trying to be subtle about it, and he hopes a far more direct approach will lure the man out of hiding.

“Keith…” Shiro says, voice carefully neutral. When Keith glances back at him, he finds Shiro watching him through narrowed eyes. “Do you… not even know the man’s name?”

A flush rushes to Keith’s face, sudden and hot. He turns away quickly, trying to brush it off with a scoff. “It… never came up.”

“You declared him as your mistress in front of the castle guard, but you don’t even know his _name?_ ”

Keith purses his lips, gritting his teeth as he wills the heat from his cheeks.

“Keith…”

“ _Blue!_ ” Keith calls again, louder this time, pointedly ignoring the silent reprimand he can feel boring into his back. He pushes Red further ahead, knowing Shiro will keep close while still allowing him to take the lead. “Blue! I know you’re there! Show yourself.”

It’s a bluff, and a brazen one at that. He hasn’t seen any sign of another human being since they entered the woods. He hasn’t caught any uncertain movement. No footsteps. No shift of armor or weapons.

The only things he has to go on is the strange silence, the hair that stands up on the back of his neck, and the uncanny sensation of being watched.

He could, of course, just be paranoid and overly hopeful, shouting into the empty forest like an idiot—

His head snaps to the side as he hears the distinct, muted _twang_ of a bowstring, followed by the near silent _whizz_ of an arrow cutting through the air.

He doesn’t see it fly, nor does he see the bowman, but he catches the moment the arrow imbeds itself in a tree up ahead, the shaft of it wobbling at the jarring stop. The head buried in the bark. The fletching a distinct shade of _blue_.

His horse startles for a brief moment, snorting indignantly and stomping at the earth in her agitation. But she’s well trained, and he’s ridden her into battle. It’ll take more than a wayward arrow to scare her. So while she takes a few annoyed steps, Keith sways with the movement, eyes locked on the arrow… before snapping in the direction it must have come from.

“This way.”

“Keith, wait—“

But he’s already on the move, digging his heels in, clicking his tongue, and directing Red through the trees. He moves quick, leaning over Red’s neck to avoid wayward branches, but doesn’t push her too hard that she might trip and hurt herself. Behind him, he can hear Shiro calling for him, his own horse larger and clumsier through the trees.

All the while Keith keeps an eye out—

 _There!_ Another arrow with blue fletching. He hadn’t heard this one being fired— had he laid this path out ahead of time?

Keith alters his course.

He follows the arrows through the forest, diving deeper into the western woods with Shiro at his tail. Five more arrows before Red breaks through the trees, stepping into a small clearing. He has half a mind to charge straight through— until he sees the arrow in the center, sticking straight out of the ground.

He pulls Red to an abrupt halt, soothing her as she voices her protest, pawing at the air for a moment with her front legs before falling back to the ground. She shakes her head, and he pats her neck. He doesn’t need to turn to hear Shiro coming up behind him, and instead keeps his eyes on the trees—

“Well, well, well… Gotta admit, I didn’t expect to see you here, your majesty.”

Keith’s head snaps in the direction of the voice— gaze frantically searching— _There_.

Movement in the tree straight across the clearing. Legs swinging into view, body long and lean, hands holding onto a branch as he dangles for a moment before dropping. He hits the ground in a crouch, rising slowly, to his full height. Shoulders broad and waist narrow. His arms are nothing to scoff at as he crosses them over his chest, and— posture lax and casual— leans back against the tree trunk.

His bow is slung over one shoulder. Quiver at his back. He wears the cloak Keith remembers, but his hood is down. His usual mask is a bunched ring of fabric around his neck, leaving his handsome face on display.

As well as that infuriating smirk that ignites something in Keith’s chest, his hands curling into fists around the reins.

Keith swallows thickly. All the words he’s been desperate to say, that have lived on the tip of his tongue since the night before, barely able to be kept from spilling past his lips— evaporate in the face of the Blue Bandit’s pretty blue eyes and irritatingly cocky grin. Leaving his mouth dry and his heart in his throat.

Before he can even attempt to formulate a response, the other man is already plowing onward, one hand waving around flippantly.

“If you’re here to arrest me or drag me back to your _chambers_ , you might as well turn around now,” he drawls, and Keith clenches his teeth. He can feel the flush that had faded during his rush through the forest start to creep back up his neck. “The woods are crawling with my Lions. We’ve been watching you two for a while, and we know you’re out here alone.”

Despite how lax is posture is and the indifference in his voice, his _eyes_ are what give Keith pause. His _eyes_ — those pretty blue eyes that make Keith uncertain whether he’s drowning or floating into the sky— are sharp.

Keith stiffens, breath held as his skin prickles, hair rising on the back of his neck.

He had been aware that they would surely be watching, but until they walked into this clearing, he hasn’t been able to confirm it. But he can _feel_ them now. All around them. Hidden in the woods, the shadows, the trees. Watching. Waiting. Silent. He thinks he catches the glint of metal and the subtle stretch of a taut bowstring, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the Blue Bandit.

Behind him, he hears Shiro’s horse shuffle and snort. Hears the soft sound of his fingers tightening over the leather reins, itching to draw his blade. But he doesn’t, and Keith is grateful for it.

“Out of respect, I’ll let you leave,” the man continues, that smirk never once fading. “But try not to test my patience or my mercy, _your majesty_.”

The warning is clear, but there’s more to it. A challenge sparkling in those sharp eyes. It’s in the lift of his chin and the set of his shoulders.

And Keith isn’t one to back down from a challenge, nor is he ready to leave empty handed. “I’m here to speak with you,” he says, voice even and resolute.

The Blue Bandit’s eyes narrow, but Keith refuses to back down. He sits tall on his horse, _proud_ even. Face unflinching and unwavering. He trusts Shiro to keep an eye on the woods while he holds this man’s gaze.

And after a moment, his lip curls into a sneer. “You may be the king, but you’re not exactly in a position to be making demands.” He spreads his arms wide, a shrug of sorts that gestures to the surrounding forest. “In case you haven’t clued in, we don’t exact abide by _authority_.”

“I need to speak with you,” Keith repeats, gritting his teeth. He inhales deeply, letting it out through his nose. He tries to relax just a fraction— just enough— tries to plead with his eyes as he lets out a begrudging and tense, “ _Please_.”

He tries his best to keep his frustrated desperation at bay— not quite willing to give the man something else to mock him for— but something must slip. Because something shifts in the Blue Bandit’s posture. A curious look in his narrowed eyes. The fading of his smirk. A tilt of his head. The way he crosses his arms over his chest, defensive but almost begrudging in the same way Keith’s _please_ had been.

“You may speak,” he says slowly, indifference bordering on cautious.

“ _Privately_.”

His lips purse for a moment as he considers, and then he sighs, briefly closing his eyes as he pushes off the tree and rocks forward. Keith watches as he walks to the center of the small clearing, stopping just on the other side of his arrow, still imbedded in the earth.

“Alright. You and me. Parley. Right here. Sir Shirogane stays back, and so do my Lions.”

“Fine.”

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro hisses from behind him, but Keith is already dismounting.

He pats Red’s side, in a specific spot that’s his signal to the steed to stay where she is. She just snorts, pawing at the ground and shaking her head as Keith walks away, striding confidently to where the Blue Bandit stands. He stops with just a few feet between them, on either side of that blue-fletched arrow.

“Come back with me,” Keith says, rushed and whispered, words spilling from his lips before they have the chance to crawl back down his throat.

“No,” he says firmly, but he keeps his voice just as hushed. “I told you before. I will not be your mistress.”

“I don’t— I never meant it _like that_ ,” Keith says with a groan.

The Blue Bandit rolls his eyes, shifting his weight to one hip. “Please, oh mighty king, pray tell exactly what other ways are there to be a _mistress?_ ”

He rests his elbow on his sling-wrapped arm, hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t—“ He huffs out a frustrated breath. He hates this. He hates mincing _words_. He hates how blunt honesty catches in his throat, writhing and heated with doubt and embarrassment. None of this— everything to do with this man— had been planned.

But if there’s anything Keith has learned to do while fighting his rebellion, it’s how to roll headlong with his impulsive decisions.

“Look, you want to help the people, right?” He drops his hand to lay across his sling, meeting the man’s eyes steadily. “You want to help the citizens. The non-nobles. That’s why you’re out there doing all of… _this_ , right?”

“Yes.” The man’s eyes narrow, watchful and wary as he purses his lips. “But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Keith takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Steadying himself. Trying to relax the tension that has him wound so tight. _Patience_. He can practically hear Shiro whisper in his ear. _Patience yields focus._

“ _That_ ,” he says slowly. “Is what I’m offering you.”

“I… I don’t understand.” His eyes flicker between Keith’s, trying to make sense of it, and he takes his curiosity as a good sign.

“As my official mistress, you’ll have a position of power and influence, second only to me and any official marriage partner I take. You’ll be equal to the nobles on my council, but _more_ because you’ll have my ear and my favor.” He pauses, shifting his weight as he glances away for a moment, whispering lowly. “You were right… when you said I let my council do whatever they want. I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

A soft snort. Wry amusement lingering as he says, “You don’t say?”

Keith rolls his eyes, shame chased away by the lighthearted mockery. He looks back to the man, feeling… steadier. Now that he knows the Blue Bandit is listening and intrigued, there’s a spark of confidence igniting in his chest.

A sense of camaraderie. Of scheming. Of having someone _see him_ for once— in all his flaws— and still stand there, joke with him, and respect him.

It’s… odd.

And it riles up a cacophony of emotions that Keith has no time to parse through.

“And that’s why I need your help. As my mistress, you could help people from the _inside_. You could help me make real change.”

The Blue Bandit looks him over for a moment, a new thoughtful look in his eyes. “You’re serious. You’re _actually_ serious?”

Keith nods, lips pursed.

The man tilts his head, brows furrowed. His cockiness has fled, giving way to confusion and uncertainty, with traces of awe. “Why would you trust me?”

“I… don’t know,” Keith says honestly. “I just… feel like I can.”

He’s aware of how strange that might sound to someone who doesn’t know him. Who hasn’t lived the life he’s led or followed him into battle. He can see it in the way the man’s expression turns dubious, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m a bandit,” he says flatly.

Keith frowns. “You were a noble under my parents, right?” He waits, receiving only a slight nod and pursed lips. “You were raised in politics—“

“So were you.”

Keith shakes his head, offering a tight smile. “All I remember is being raised for war. Not… so much the part that comes after.”

“This won’t work,” he says after a moment, dismissing the idea even as Keith sees it sticking. “Your council— the nobles— your _people_ — they’ll never accept me—“

“It worked for my father.”

At that, the man’s mouth snaps shut, brows pinched— in thought or frustration, Keith isn’t sure. The silence stretches as he looks Keith over, and Keith stands still for his evaluation, trying to taper the urge to twitch and shift under his scrutinizing gaze.

The wind rustles through the trees. He can hear the creak and groan of branches supporting human weight. The soft pad of boots on soft earth as the Blue Bandit’s Pride creeps closer.

Finally, the man’s eyes flicker over Keith’s shoulder. “And you, Sir Shirogane?” He calls out, and Keith stiffens to keep from turning around. “What do you think of the king’s plan?”

“I wouldn’t have let him come if I didn’t support it,” he says easily, all proper and formal with that air of casual kindness and patience that he’s known for. He makes it all seem too _easy_ , and it’s not the first time that Keith has found himself thinking that Shiro would make for a much better king. “I trust his instincts, even if they seem unfounded. He’s never steered us wrong.”

“You don’t have to do it for me,” Keith says softly, drawing the Blue Bandit’s attention back to him. “But for our people.”

His expression pinches, furrowed brows heavy over narrowed eyes. Lips twisted and thoughts locked behind eyes that Keith can’t read. He turns then, gaze searching for something in the forest— though Keith isn’t sure if it’s for someone in particular or for answers.

Keith waits for his answer, wind playing with his hair and heart in his throat.

“Two of my friends get jobs in the castle,” he says, turning back to Keith. “That’s non-negotiable. If I’m doing this, I want people I can trust close to me.”

Keith feels like the breath has been knocked out of him, rushing past his lips with a quick, “Of course.” Fragile. Soft. Careful. Afraid that speaking louder might shatter the moment and prove this to be a dream. “Does this mean…?”

He takes a step closer, jabbing a finger at him, close enough to his nose that Keith’s eyes cross when he tries to focus on it in his surprise. “And I don’t actually have to be your mistress.”

“T-that’s not—” Keith stutters in his haste, feeling heat flare up his neck and burn at the tips of his ears. He holds up his free hand in a placating gesture. “I won’t—“ He huffs, glaring at the man’s raised brow and expectant look. “ _Fine_.”

A grin crawls across the man’s lips, slow and steady, lifting at the edges, lopsided and coy. “And if shit goes sideways, I’m out of there—“

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Keith interrupts with a roll of his eyes. “ _The Blue Bandit always escapes_. I’ve heard it before.”

“And don’t you forget it.” He extends a hand between them, and Keith takes it after only brief hesitation. His fingers are long, and his palm is warm, grip firm and grounding. Keith tries not to focus on it, squeezing back. “You’ve got yourself a deal, your grace. And by the way…” He tilts his head then, grin coiling into a smirk as he winks, making heat prickle beneath Keith’s skin and his stomach flip. “The name’s Lance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance isn't sure what he expected when he agreed to this arrangement, but he expected _at least_ some communication and teamwork. After all, isn't the whole point of him being here to help Keith? But communication and teamwork seem to be two things the great warrior king is terrible at, leaving Lance floundering as he tries to figure out his place, purpose, and power within the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's reading, commenting, and even you silent peeps enjoying the ride <33

Lance slams into the kitchen without much finesse, grace, or propriety. The kitchen door rattles on its hinges, but it’s too heavy to actually hit the wall behind it. A shame, really. That would have been satisfying. However, it still manages to startle the servants nearby. He catches them jumping, a few dishes clattering to tables, and whipping around to gape at him—

But as soon as they see who it is, they look down and away. Backs hunched and shoulders stiff. Going about their business with a frantic due diligence.

The hush that falls over the room crawls across his skin, brows pinching and scowl settling heavy on his lips.

It’s not _right_. Kitchens are supposed to be _lively_ , filled with chatter. The din of gossip and conversation. The half-hummed, half-sung melodies as they go through the motions of chopping vegetables and kneading bread. Kitchens are supposed to be warm and welcoming, the _heart_ of homes and castles.

The sound of dishes clanking, the dull thud of knives hitting cutting boards, the sizzling of oil in pans… it all sounds eerie without the accompaniment of voices.

He hates it.

He hates how everywhere he goes ends up like this. Stiff and strained, uncertain on all sides. He hates how people get quiet when he walks into a room, conversation dying on their tongues in his presence. He hates how no one has been able to meet his eye ever since he moved in officially as the royal mistress.

Nobles and servants alike. No one seems to know how to act around him, how to address him, or how to deal with his presence.

And for someone as naturally charming as he is— as someone who _thrives_ on social interaction— as someone who _prides_ himself on his ability to make conversation with and friends with anyone— as someone who considers himself a man of the people— it’s _infuriating_.

He’s _suffocating_ in this strained atmosphere. The awkward uncertainty that surrounds him is so grating that he’s certain that his skin is losing its smooth, lustrous shine. His own smile has become so tight that his jaw constantly aches.

And above all else, he’s _tired_.

He’s spent four weeks at the castle, under the official title of royal mistress, and it’s felt like an _eternity_.

After standing there for a moment in the open doorway, eyes drifting around the room to take note of all the servants who _refuse_ to look at him, he _finally_ finds someone who will make eye-contact.

_Shay_. Bless her, honestly. She meets his gaze with bright, honey eyes. A grin stretches her lips immediately, her posture perking up as she sees him. It’s a _relief_. His entire body relaxes, tension leaking out of him in a surge that he hadn’t expected. Is he really that starved for a little camaraderie?

He smiles, trying to silently communicate his gratitude. She’s currently manning a large iron cauldron that’s settled over a fire in the hearth, stirring continuously and keeping an eye on the contents. He knows she won’t be able to leave her post, and he doesn’t really want to weave across the entirety of the kitchen to reach her. So instead he mouths a silent question: “ _Hunk?_ ”

She nods to the side, gesturing to one of the joining rooms. Specifically to the door leading to the secondary kitchen used for baking.

He gives her a small wave and a grateful smile before inching his way along the edge of the kitchen, trying to stay out of everyone’s way as he hurries to get out of their space.

Heat rolls out of the room as soon as he opens the door. With as many ovens as there are, it’s easily the hottest part of the kitchen. Even with all the windows open to help circulate air. It’s not too busy at the moment, but he _does_ notice the shift in atmosphere as he enters and people take note of him. He ignores them, heading to the corner where his best buddy is covered in flour, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he kneads huge mounds of dough.

He’s humming softly to himself, a lazy and content smile on his face, brows furrowed slightly in effort and concentration as he puts his whole body into kneading.

Lance grabs a stool from the side of the room, ignoring the way the rest of the servants silently vacate the baking kitchen. He appreciates the privacy as much as he hates the fact that they give it to them without being asked.

“You look right at home here, buddy,” he says, unable to help his tired smile.

“Lance!” Hunk whips around, a grin spreading wide as he immediately abandons the dough and steps toward him with arms wide.

“ _Whoa whoa!_ ” He holds up a hand, half lifting the stool as if it were a shield. “As much as I miss your hugs, buddy, you’re _covered_ in flour.”

Hunk pauses, eyes wide as he blinks. Then his gaze drifts downward, and he huffs out a short laugh. “Oh, right.” He makes a couple swipes at his flour stained clothes, but the attempt is futile. Instead, he just shrugs, going back to kneading as Lance settles on the stool next to the table. “Wouldn’t want to dirty up your fancy new clothes.”

It’s said as a tease and with a playful wink, but Lance feels something heavy solidify in his chest. He sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table— safely out of the flour— and propping his cheek up with a fist. “ _Right_ ,” he says, words twisted in sarcasm and tasting bitter on his tongue. “Wouldn’t want the royal mistress to look uncouth. Not that it matters when no one will _look at me_.”

Though he continues— setting aside the mound of dough he’d been working on and grabbing another— he does spare Lance a sympathetic look. “Oh, man… that’s still going on?”

“Have you looked around, Hunk?” He gives a lazy sweep of one arm. “Your baking buddies vacated the kitchen as soon as I arrived.”

“Oh.” He glances around, a furrow to his brows. “I just assumed they liked giving us some privacy—“

“People who live in castles _thrive_ on gossip. They didn’t leave to give us privacy. They left because— I don’t know— they’re scared of me or something.”

“Lance, they’re not _scared_ of you—“

“They are! Everyone is!” He throws his hands in the air as his voice crawls to a higher pitch. “Their king has never had a mistress before. They don’t know how much power or influence I have. They don’t know how to treat me or how high up on the social ladder I am. But I’m not just a pretty face. I’m a known bandit! They don’t know what I’m capable of, or what I’m doing. They don’t know what to make of me— fuck, _I_ don’t even know what to make of me.”

He groans, folding his arms on the table and burying his face within the safety of them.

“Oh, buddy…” Hunk says, voice all low and comforting, lacking any sort of pity and emanating only empathy. He hears Hunk shuffle around before a heavy and familiar hand comes down on his back, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder-blades. “It’s that bad, huh?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Hunk,” he groans, voice muffled in his arms.

“Sure you do. You’re mistress’ing.” The hand on his back pauses, followed by a thoughtful, “Can that word even be used that way? Mistress’ing? You know, like… _to mistress_. Anyway, you’re doing that! Wait—“ He gasps, dramatically enough that Lance tilts his head to peek up at him, one eyebrow raised. Hunk gapes at him. “He’s not— you’re not—“ He leans in close, hissing lowly. “Are you _actually_ mistress’ing?”

“ _What?_ ” He squawks, sitting up to slap at Hunk’s chest, sending a puff of flour into the air. “No! _No_ — Hunk, not like _that_. We’re not— We _agreed_ that wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Oh.” Hunk heaves a sigh of relief, running a shaky hand through his hair and leaving remnants of flour and small pieces of dough. “Okay, good. For a second there I was afraid I was going to have to fight a _king_ — no, the _warrior king_ , and I don’t think that would work out so well.”

Lance huffs a short laugh, unable to help himself, lips curling into a wry smile. “Aww, buddy. You’d beat up a king for me?”

“You know I would.”

“Thanks, man.” He sighs again, dropping his chin to his folded arms. Hunk’s hand starts rubbing circles on his back once more. And you know what? He doesn’t even care that his clothes are probably a mess. Fuck it. “Keith said I would be able to help people in this position, but I don’t know how when they won’t even _look at me_.”

His head tilts to the side, cheek smushed against his forearm. His other hand reaches forward, finger drawing idle patterns in the flour smattered along the table’s surface.

“It’s just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what he expects of me or what my limitations are, you know? And to make everything worse…” He huffs, eyes squeezing shut and turning his head to hide his face. “Every time I try, I _somehow_ manage to fuck it all up. I swear, it’s only a matter of time before they either kick me out or lock me up.”

“I’m sure you didn’t mess up _that_ bad—“

“Trust me, Hunk,” he deadpans. “It’s _that_ bad.”

* * *

_It’s been a week and a half since he rode back to the castle with Keith and officially took up the mantle of_ royal mistress _— which, by the way, he only refers to in his head with a heavy dose of attitude and sarcasm— and he_ still _gets lost in here._

_The castle is_ huge _, filled with a plethora of twists and turns, but he’s determined to memorize each and every one. He might be here under the king’s personal invitation, but he’s not a fool. Despite what he might think, his word alone doesn’t ensure Lance’s safety, and he’ll feel a lot better about being in enemy territory— as he lovingly calls it— if he knows all the ins and outs of the castle._

_After all, the only reason he’s survived this long is because he knows the Western Woods better than anyone else._

_So he spends most of the first couple weeks merely walking the castle. Getting lost and then finding his way back. Trying to get to know the corridors like the back of his hand and all the secret passages like the lines of his palm. Because while it would certainly be easier if he only bothered with the main halls and rooms— as he’s sure most nobles do— he’s also intrigued by all the lesser used hallways._

_The servants halls. The rooms where they live and spend their free time. The small spiraling staircases and the cramped corridors. They twist and turn all around the castle, allowing the servants to slip around without sharing too much of the same space as the nobles._

_And_ that _is far more useful than the grand halls with rich rugs and hanging tapestries._

_Besides, it’s not like he has any duties to attend to. Keith hasn’t given him_ any _sort of direction as to what he should be doing. And it’s not like he’s making any friends with the way_ everyone _refuses to get within ten feet of him. Might as well spend his time being productive in some way._

_It’s on one of these excursions that he overhears a conversation that gives him pause._

_He hears plenty of conversations as he walks around, though they usually get quiet the moment they spot him. He’s learned to ignore them, and most of the time, it’s either idle chatter or the same piece of gossip he’s heard rolling off dozens of tongues already, with varying changes to details._

_But while he usually tunes out the voices, there’s something about these that have his steps slowing. His ears perk up, head tilting toward the source of the sound. Peering around the corner, he sees no one in the hall, but he follows the din of conversation to a closed door. Pressing his ear to it carefully, he listens._

_There’s two voices, both masculine, but the words are muffled by the door. No matter how hard he tries— breath held and eyes closed— he can’t make it out. They keep their conversation hushed in the privacy of the room._

_But there’s_ definitely _something familiar about them._

_He shouldn’t stay like this— pressed against a door and clearly eavesdropping. It definitely wouldn’t look good if they came out or if someone turned down this corridor. It would be clear that either the king’s mistress is using him, a spy for him, or can’t be rid of his outlaw habits. And none of those options are good outcomes._

_But he stays there for just a few more strained minutes, feeling every second tick past in agonizing slowness as he wracks his brain for any sort of memory with those voices—_

_When he remembers._

_The night he broke out of his cell in the tower— sneaking through the halls with Hunk amidst the anniversary ball— stopping in a dusty music room to find something to pilfer— hearing two nobles whispering in the hall—_

_It’s the_ same voice _. He_ knows _it. He can’t hear a word they’re saying, but he_ knows _it’s them. Faces often escape him, taking longer to fix in his memory, but_ voices _. He’s good with voices._

_It’s the same two nobles. The ones who were scheming. Who want to marry Keith to their daughter and take him out once they have an heir._

_Lance’s eyes narrow, stepping away from the door with pursed lips, scowling at it like it might hold the answers. Because while he recognizes their voices, he still doesn’t know who they are. Doesn’t know their names or faces._

_And… this is a hard choice to make._

_See, the thing is, there’s some kind of fancy dinner tonight. Something with visiting nobles— or royalty? He’s not quite sure. But it’s the first official thing Keith has asked him to attend. He’s supposed to be Keith’s arm candy for the night. Supposed to flaunt his charm and solidify his position._

_And while that’s important, especially to keep up the facade and power of his position… he also_ really _wants to figure out who these guys are._

_★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★_

_1\. Burst through the door to confront them_

_2\. Hang back and try to sneakily follow_

_**3\. Go to the dinner obligation with Keith** _

_★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★_

Fuck _. Lance heaves a sigh, heavy and quick through his nose. Frustration furrows his brow, twisting his lips up into scowl._

_He has to go to the dinner. It’s the first thing Keith has actually asked of him since he agreed to come back, and if Lance wants this new position to work out— which he_ does _… right?— he should probably make a good impression…_

_His lip curls, bearing his teeth as he points a stern finger at the closed door._ I’ll figure out who you are and what you’re plotting, _he silently vows._ There’s no information the Blue Lion can’t find.

_He begrudgingly hurries away, speed-walking through the main halls to get back to his rooms faster— pausing briefly and embarrassingly outside of the door to Keith’s suite to give it a lingering and curious glance. Once safely inside his own suite, he leans back against the closed door, eyes falling shut and a sigh slipping past his lips._

_Right… Refocus. Regroup. Tackle the immediate problem._

_Those noble goons will probably be around for a while since they haven’t already left after the anniversary festivities were over. So… he’ll get a chance again, and_ then _he’ll be able to figure out who they are and warn Keith. Besides, the danger isn’t immediate as long as Keith doesn’t get married tomorrow—_

_A hand goes to his stomach, sliding to his side to wrap around his middle. That… was a weird feeling. A wave of nausea that… doesn’t make sense._

_Must be nerves for his first official dinner._

Fuck _. His first official dinner as Keith’s mistress._

_He pushes himself off the door, squaring his shoulders and making his way across the sitting room, towards his bedroom— it’s still hard to believe that he has a_ royal suite _. Never in his life, not even when his family was still of noble status, did he think he’d be in this sort of position. He never thought he’d even_ see _royal chambers, let alone_ live in one _._

_His suite includes a sitting room, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Each one more lavish and decadent than the last. Though it had been clear that the suite hadn’t been used in a long time, the servants had spruced it up tenfold, making it sparkle and shine._

_He makes his way through his bedchamber to stop in front of the large, intricately carved wardrobe. Throwing open the doors, he narrows his eyes on the vast array of fine silks, expensive dyes, and well-cut designs. None of them are tailored to him. There are seamstresses working on creating more personalized pieces. For now, the collection has been hobbled together by…. actually, he’s not sure. He’s not certain if they were bought pre-made, taken in as donations, or if they were merely_ here _… left over from when Zarkon purged the castle._

_Some of them Lance suspects might even be from Keith’s own wardrobe… He’s steered clear of those pieces._

_What he picks is simple but elegant. He thinks it speaks to his humble lifestyle while also proving that he can dress and look the part of a mistress. Show them that he_ can _do this. That he looks good, and there’s no reason to doubt why he was chosen for this role._

_Plus, okay,_ maybe _he’s indulging in the blue silks with gold trim. What can he say? It makes his eyes_ pop _and accentuates his skin-tone._

_He leaves his suite feeling like a diamond in the rough, confident that he had made the right decision._

That _, however, was a fleeting feeling._

* * *

“The dinner was a _disaster_ , Hunk,” he mumbles into his arms. At some point during his tale, Hunk had pulled up a second stool and is now sitting next to him, leaning on the flour coated table. Enraptured. His baking forgotten. “I should’ve just followed those nobles and figured out who they are. It would’ve been a better use of my time.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t—“ Lance tilts his head enough to shoot Hunk a sharp look, at which point he bites his tongue, giving a full body wince. “That bad, huh?”

“It was the most awkward dinner I’ve ever had to sit through!” He pushes himself back, sitting upright, giving himself room to swing his arms around to emphasize his frustration. “First of all, he didn’t introduce me, like, _at all_. I kind of took the seat next to him, which I _assume_ was the right one, but _no one indicated it was_ , so who the hell knows? He _barely_ looked at me the whole time— like, seriously? I’m supposed to be his _mistress_. His _first_ mistress, mind you. The man who supposedly was so devastatingly handsome to have smitten the king and earned himself a full pardon. And yet he wouldn’t even meet my eyes! I even kicked him under the table a couple times and all he did was scowl at his peas.”

“Oh,” Hunk winces again, this time in sympathy. “How’d the nobles react?”

“With either strained smiles, weak attempts at conversation, or to flat out ignore me. That last one was a popular choice.”

“That sounds… really awful, man.”

“It is!” He crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched as he scowls at the mounds of dough. “I know one thing for certain. You won’t catch me dead at another little royal dinner party.”

“I mean…” Hunk pauses, idly running a finger through the flour as his brow furrows. “You’re supposed to be his mistress right? Isn’t being arm candy just part of the job? You know, seen and not heard?”

“I’d think that if it weren’t for the fact that Keith offered me this position specifically _not_ to be arm candy, but to _help him_ figure out how the hell to rule his kingdom. How am I supposed to have _any_ influence if he won’t even acknowledge me? The people are just going to follow his example!”

“Maybe what he meant was for you to just… advise him in private? Not actually be, you know, openly entangled in politics.”

“Maybe,” Lance huffs in begrudging acknowledgement. “But _maybe_ this whole thing would be a lot easier if he would actually tell me what he wants me to do.”

“Don’t get mad,” Hunk says warily. Lance turns to look at him, eyes narrowed and one warning brow raised. Hunk sighs, running a had through his hair and leaving trails of flour. “Have you tried… I don’t know, talking to him? Asking this directly?”

Lance scoffs, a loud bark of a sound, doubling down with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “You think _I_ haven’t tried talking?”

Despite himself, a short huff of a laugh escapes Hunk, his lips curling into a small smile. “Okay, fair point, _but_ you also get stubborn sometimes and will refuse to speak directly about something that’s bothering you.”

Lance’s brow furrow, lips pursing into a pout because, honestly? Hunk’s got him there. But that, however, is _not_ the point. “I’ve tried, Hunk. I’ve actually _tried_.” He sighs, voice lilting with a bitter, mocking edge. “But our all mighty savior, the strong and brave warrior king, isn’t exactly great at talking.”

* * *

_“Are you_ serious? _” In all honesty, Lance can definitely tell that his voice is crawling up in both pitch and volume, so he can’t exactly blame Keith for wincing. But that being said, he’s far too shocked and frustrated to really care._

_“Do you have to shout?” He grumbles, brows furrowed as he rubs one ear. It’s an_ entirely _dramatic gesture. He’s not_ that _loud._

_He narrows his eyes. Hands on his hips. Hip cocked. Shoulders squared. Head tilted to the side. He lifts his chin, holding Keith’s glare in nothing short of a challenge of his own. “_ Yes _.”_

_There’s a tick in Keith’s jaw. Grinding his teeth, probably. The pinch between his brows deepens for just a moment before he sighs, collapsing backwards in his chair. If it weren’t for the scowl tightening his features, he’d look like he was lounging. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”_

_“Don’t see— the_ big deal? _” He throws up his hands, twisting on his heel to pace. Past Keith’s desk and back again. There’s not a lot of space in Keith’s office, but he makes do. “The_ big deal _is that you’re allowing the southern lords to increase taxes on their subjects_ and _you approved sending out armed reinforcements! You’re providing them with armaments!”_

_Keith’s glare narrows just a fraction, jaw tightening as the muscle in his temple twitches. His hands flex on the arms of his chair, fingers rubbing together in a way that Lance is starting to realize is a nervous tick. His jaw works, lips pursed and parting— before snapping together once more._

_Lance has learned that face, too. Once, he might have seen that fierce scowl as the look of a powerful man angry to be opposed and chastised. Once, he might have feared a look like that and back-peddled spectacularly. He can definitely see how Keith has gotten the reputation that he has— fierce and wild, sharp angles and a sharp tongue._

_But Lance has learned._

_This isn’t Keith angry. This is Keith_ uncertain _. Unsure, frustrated, and irritated. And all of that doubt coils up behind a defensive shield like a cobra backed into a corner and hissing._

_So, knowing this, Lance expects the snap back before Keith even settles on the words to use. Because_ gods forbid _a king tackle this problem head on and ask relevant questions. No,_ clearly _it’s better to fight with Lance._

_(Despite what Hunk says, Lance refuses to admit his own part in this. It’s_ Keith _who instigates their fights. If the verbal spars can be called that.)_

_“Well, it’s not like you were there to advise me otherwise,” he finally says, with a subtle lift to his chin and a fire in his eyes._

_He wants to play the blame game?_ Fine _. Lance can play, too. He whirls around, pointing an accusing finger. “It’s not like_ you _asked me to be there!” He stomps back toward him, stopping with nothing but the large, oak desk to separate them. He crosses his arms, leveling Keith with a look and_ daring _him to look away._

_He doesn’t. He holds Lance’s gaze, and Lance allows himself to sigh, shoulders slumping._

_“Look, Keith._ Seriously _, why am I here?” He doesn’t mean to sound so tired, but that’s definitely how it comes out._

_Keith stiffens, breath hitching as his entire body tenses. When he speaks, it’s soft and carefully even. “I told you. I need you to help me— to help the people—“_

_Lance cuts him off with a groan, head rolling back. “But you never told me how to_ do that! _” He falls forward, hands coming down on the desk. He stares at Keith through narrowed eyes, voice soft, serious, and pleading as he says, “Just tell me what you want me to do._ Please. _”_

_★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★_

**_Keith’s Response:_ **

_1\. Find information_

_2\. Talk to the people_

**_3\. Advise me_ **

_★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★_

_Keith’s eyes finally dart away from his own. To the side. To the desk between them. Brows furrowed and lips pursed, working together as his jaw clenches. His arms are crossed over his chest, but Lance can see the way his posture tenses, hands flexing._

_Finally, he looks up, eyes narrowed and gaze intense. He says, sharp, short, and sure, “Advise me.”_

_A breath slips past Lance’s lips in a rush. One he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “Advise you,” he repeats. “That’s what you want?”_

_Keith nods, quick and definitive._

_“Fine.” Lance lifts a hand, jabbing a pointed finger down at Keith’s desk, making noise against the papers scattered across his desk. “First bit of advice? Put this order on hold. We need to look into it more thoroughly and figure out_ why _the southern lords want to raise taxes, and why the people aren’t paying them. Odds are, the fault isn’t in the people, but in the lords themselves. Sending armaments is just going to add fuel to a fire you don’t want burning in your name.”_

_Keith’s lips work together, small micro-expressions that are coming through despite his efforts to remain impassive. Finally, he huffs, shrugging casually despite his generally defeated slouch and defensive glare. “Fine.”_

_“Fine.”_

_“_ Fine _.”_

_“_ Thank you _, your majesty,” Lance says, sardonic sarcasm dripping from the honey of his voice. He steps back from the desk to give an overly dramatic, sweeping bow. And from the lowest point of his bow, he lifts his head, giving Keith a glare through his lashes. “My second bit of advice?_ Ask for it _.” He straightens, making a show of adjusting his sleeves and tunic. “It’s much easier to advise you before decisions are made.”_

_He doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t look for whatever constipated expression Keith wears. He’s tired. He’s_ done _. And he’s making a point._

_So instead he turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and letting the door swing shut none too gently._

* * *

“Well,” Hunk sighs, rubbing soothing circles on Lance’s back. He’s pretty sure his tunic is now covered in flour, but he doesn’t care. It’s worth it for the comfort Hunk provides. “At least you tried, right? And you got an answer.”

“I got an answer, but I can’t really _do anything_ to advise him if he doesn’t _communicate_ about when he needs it,” Lance huffs. He’s started drawing in the flour, and throughout his rant, him and Hunk have started a game of X’s-and-O’s on various crosshatched boards drawn over the flour covered table. “It’s not like I’m attached at his hip, ready to offer my wise words at the drop of a coin.”

“Well… why not?”

“What?”

“I win,” Hunk says with a smile, drawing in a circle to create a row of three. “Wanna go again?” Lance nods, and he starts drawing a new board. “I just mean, like… you’re his mistress? Officially and everything. Why _don’t_ you just… hang out at his side? Attach yourself to his hip or whatever. No one would question it, and then you could be there to advise him when he needs it.”

Lance heaves a heavy sigh, making an X in the flour. “It’s not that easy…”

“Why?” Hunk asks, making an O. “Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“It would be in probably literally any other circumstance,” Lance huffs. “But this is _Keith_ we’re talking about.”

There’s a brief pause, and when Lance glances at Hunk, his brows are furrowed. His lips purse out in thought, eyes narrowing as he looks at Lance.

Lance narrows his eyes right back. “What?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you calling the king by his first name,” he says with a shake of his head.

A surprise laugh bubbles out of him, and just that simple act has some of the tension leaking out of his shoulders. “Well, he doesn’t like it when I call him _your majesty_. He scowls like it’s an insult.”

Hunk gives him a pointed look, tapping a finger in the flour. “I think that’s a pretty good indicator that you’re… you know, on good terms?”

“We are.” His face pinches, lips curling into a half formed grimace. “At least I _think_ we are. It’s hard to tell sometimes.” He sighs, shaking his head as he marks an X on their new board. “I used to think he was stuck up. Just another royal up on his high horse. The strong silent type.” He leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm and scratching his eyebrow, smearing four across it. “But now I’m realizing that he’s not some cool, mysterious, royal enigma. He’s just awkward as all hell.”

Hunk hums thoughtfully, drawing out an O. “That’s definitely how you make him sound, but just personally, man? I still think he’s intimidating, mysterious, and definitely an enigma.” He shudders, shaking his head. “You won’t catch me getting on his bad side.”

“That’s just because you only see what he wants you to see,” Lance says, reaching out to pat Hunk’s shoulder.

He’s not surprised. He doubts many people get close enough to Keith to see what he’s really like, and the king probably prefers it that way. Lance is sure that if they hadn’t crossed paths in the woods that fateful day, he would be in the same boat as Hunk.

“Honestly, sometimes I wonder how he managed to win the war. I thought the famous _Warrior King_ would be more decisive, especially after he hunted me down in the woods and practically demanded I help him, but… he’s just so _hesitant_.”

“What’d you mean?” Hunk asks with a raised brow.

Lance’s lips twist into a grimace, looking away. “I can’t really play the _doting mistress_ role and stay attached to his hip when he’s just so damn _awkward_ with physical contact.”

* * *

_“The southern lords aren’t happy,” Shiro sighs, leaning back in his chair behind the desk. One hand taps heavily against the arm rest, his brow furrowed in thought._

_Lance scoffs, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed over his chest. “I doubt the_ people _of the southern lands are very happy either. Otherwise there wouldn’t be an issue to begin with.”_

_Shiro hums, and when he speaks, though his voice remains neutral, Lance swears he can hear the lilting edge of wry amusement. “I suppose that’s true.” He sighs. “Still, the lords aren’t happy with being promised support and then having it taken away. While I_ do _agree with the decision, it might prove… difficult to pacify them.”_

_“They’re just going to have to deal with it,” Keith says, a scowl heavy on his features. He sits across the desk from Shiro, arms crossed over his chest and lounging low. Not very kingly, if you ask Lance, but very Keith._

_“They will,” Shiro agrees. “But now_ we _have to deal with_ them _.”_

_Lance rolls his eyes, dramatically making a face to show_ exactly _how he feels about the southern lords. Shiro, thankfully, can’t see it. But Keith can. He hadn’t meant to entertain him, but when he catches the king’s eye, he sees the shadow of a smirk forming on his lips, eyes gleaming—_

_Then there’s a knock at the door, and the three of them freeze._

_Being the royal mistress, Lance has no reason to be in Shiro’s office. Not unless he’s accompanying the king. And if he’s accompanying the king, they definitely have to be a lot more intimate than standing three feet apart and barely looking at each other._

_So Lance acts on instinct and quick wit, moving towards Keith in three easy strides and sliding into his lap as the door opens._

_★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★_

**_Keith’s Response:_ **

_1\. Fight_

_2\. Flight_

**_3\. Freeze_ **

_★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★_

_Lance catches wide eyes and parted lips that do nothing to muffle the sharp inhale, but it’s too late to back out now. He’s committed to this action, and it would look worse to pull away now. Keith came into his woods and practically_ begged _him to be his mistress. If he can’t handle a little intimate touch for show, the whole farce will fall through._

_Keith is stiff as stone as Lance settles on his lap, plush of his rump on one thigh while his legs drape over the other. He leans against Keith’s chest, one arm falling over the back of the chair and around his shoulders. The other rests palm-heavy against his lapel._

_It’s… awkward._ Incredibly _so. Keith’s body is tense, rigid, and_ oozing _discomfort. It’s like sitting on a statue, hardened muscles having absolutely no give. Not to mention his arms are still crossed over his chest, now_ locked _in place, boney elbows digging into Lance’s ribs where he’s_ trying _to be a doting mistress._

_It doesn’t help that the look of surprise has also hardened, shifting into his signature scowl. Brows furrowed. Lips pursed. Tense lines etched deep around a tight mouth and narrowed eyes._

_Lance half expects Keith to shove him off or at least snap at him. He can sense the venom-dipped words right on the tip of his tongue— and yet surprisingly, he does neither. He merely remains frozen, glaring at Lance but otherwise…_ nothing _._

_Unfortunately,_ nothing _is just as bad. What sort of man looks like_ this _when he has the ass— a very nice ass, thank you very much— of his beloved mistress in his lap?_

_The door unlatches, swinging open just enough for a guard to poke their head through. Lance can only hope that from behind and across the room, their position looks_ somewhat _normal._

_“Sir Shirogane, Master Iverson is here with reports on the new knights.”_

_The man behind the desk sighs, lifting a hand and absently crooking a couple fingers. “Send him in.”_

_And still, the king has not moved or relaxed an_ inch _._

_Lance… will admit that he’s a little put off. He’s had his fair share of romps. He’s known to be a charmer and a flirt. And yet… he’s never had someone_ freeze _so fully at his touch. He expected at least flustered. He can deal with flustered and uncertain. But this? This is just…_ awkward _._

_As the guard dips back out of the room, Lance turns to cast a questioning and pleading gaze at Shiro. He’s met with a smile that speaks of sympathy but eyes that are alight with wry amusement._

_It’s clear that while he sees the pain Lance is in… he won’t be of any help._

_Great._

_It’s up to Lance to fix this. What else is new?_

_There’s a murmur of voices in the hall, and he’s pretty sure they only have a few precious seconds. So Lance wastes no time in turning back to the king, sitting upright to grab both his arms where they’re crossed over his chest. As he tugs, there’s a firm resistance, biceps flexing and fists curling tight enough to turn his knuckles white as he instinctively fights back._

_Lance meets his glare with one of his own. “Stop being so stiff,” he hisses._

_“What are you doing?” Keith snaps back, thankfully keeping his voice at a harsh whisper, hinging just barely in the direction of frazzled panic._

_Despite his frustration, Lance feels just a hair of sympathy. So he sighs, rolling his eyes and giving Keith’s arms another light tug. “I’m your_ mistress _. At least_ act _like you’re okay with me touching you.”_

_“Why are you_ in my lap? _” Did his voice just break? No. No, Lance has to have been imagining that. His own panic at their precious seconds ticking away has his ears ringing._

_“_ Because _,” Lance gives another tug, and finally—_ finally _— there’s some give. Keith is still stiff, but he allows Lance to maneuver to his arms, wrapping one around his waist and laying the other so his hand rests on Lance’s knee. “I have no reason to_ be here _, in a meeting between you and the head of your king’s guard, unless I’m your lap buddy. So just—_ stop being so stiff _.”_

_His request goes unheeded as Iverson, master of knight training, enters Shiro’s office. Despite his hands now being in appropriate places, Keith remains stiff as ever, his touch so uncomfortable and uncertain that it nearly makes Lance’s skin crawl._

_Still, Lance leans into the part he agreed to play. He lounges against Keith once more, one elbow resting on the back of his chair as he cards his fingers through Keith’s hair. It’s an impulsive gesture. One born from Lance’s need to fiddle with_ something _and his innate desire to convince Keith to relax._

_It works, if only minutely._

_As Lance runs his fingers through his hair— which is unfairly thick and soft, by the way, leaving Lance earnestly transfixed by the sensation of it sliding between his fingers— he can feel some of the tension start to slip away. Not all of it. He still remains unnaturally stiff. But there’s some give to the thighs beneath Lance’s legs. The fist resting atop Lance’s knee opens up, fingers resting at a far more normal angle. Beneath his other hand, Lance can feel Keith’s chest rise and fall with deep, steadying breaths._

_His face remains fixed in that impassive scowl, but he’s come to associate that look with one of emotional constipation. If Keith is feeling something he’s uncertain of or doesn’t want others to see, he wears that scowl. If he’s lost in thought or contemplation, he wears that scowl. If he’s determined and stubborn, he wears that scowl. It’s his mask, fierce and piercing. One that the Warrior King has become known for._

_This one might be a result of Lance’s foreign touch, but at least its place on his features isn’t abnormal or unheard of, especially in royal dealings._

_Yet despite his scowl and stiff posture, Lance doesn’t miss the way he leans his head into Lance’s touch, seeking out the steady stroke of his fingers._

_And perhaps it’s just about getting himself into the role of mistress, but Lance allows a small smug smile to settle upon his lips._

_Iverson eyes them both as he comes to stand at Shiro’s desk. His brows can’t seem to settle on being furrowed or raised, but it’s clear by his pinched expression that he’s not sure what to make of Lance sitting so casually in his king’s lap. Keith refuses to look at him, but Lance meets his gaze boldly, tilting his head with a casual smile._

Nothing to see here. Move along. Just a man and his mistress. What of it?

_Shiro clears his throat, snapping Iverson’s attention away from holding Lance’s gaze— which_ might _have been more challenging than intended. He clears his own throat, straightening and giving a stiff half-bow with a mumbled, “Your majesty. Sir Shirogane.”_

_Lance doesn’t miss the fact that he’s left out of the greeting, nor does he miss the fact that Iverson seems to now be pointedly ignoring him._

_“Your report, Master Iverson?” Shiro prompted with a lifted brow and an easy smile. There’s tension around his eyes— fuck, there’s tension sizzling around the_ room _. Charged and uncomfortable, putting all four men on edge._

_And Lance isn’t an idiot. He’s well aware that his actions are what’s causing it. A ricochet effect that bounces Keith’s discomfort to Iverson to Shiro._

_“Right,” Iverson says, voice gruff and stilted. “Forgive me, sir, but I was hoping to speak with you and his majesty in… private.”_

_Lance can sure as fuck tell when he’s not wanted. Still, he’s not about to go without making a show of it._

_“Well,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, letting his head flop to the side until it rests against Keith’s, ignoring the way the man stiffens once more. His hand tightens in Keith’s hair, a gentle tug out of sight of the others, reminding him to relax. “Far be it from me to invade your_ privacy _, Master Iverson. If you all will excuse me, I’ll make myself scarce before you get into the dry and drab paperwork of squires and knights,” he drawls, bored and yet barbed._

_He lifts his head, turning to face Keith, who tilts his head just enough to cast Lance a curious, side-long glance. One brow raised. Lips pressed into a small frown that Lance can’t quite read._

_Acting on impulse, with a dash of defiance and stubborn pride, Lance sweeps forward, pressing his lips to Keith’s temple._

_His sharp inhale is soft, but it echoes in Lance’s ears as he slides off the king’s lap, hips swaying as he saunters leisurely toward the door._

* * *

“To be honest, I thought he was going to chew me out for pulling that one on him,” Lance leans back against the table, arms crossed over his chest as he frowns at the floor. “I was all ready to defend myself and give it right back, but he just… avoided the subject all together. I don’t think he looked me in the eye for three days.”

“Wow,” Hunk breathes, hushed and marginally surprised. He’s abandoned his spot at Lance’s side, covering the table once more with a fresh powdering of flour as he goes back to kneading dough. “He sounds…”

“Like a pain in the ass to deal with, yeah.” Lance huffs out a breath, halfway to a laugh.

Hunk hums thoughtfully. “I was actually going to say shy.”

Lance tilts his head back until he can see Hunk upside down, narrowing his eyes. “Shy?”

“Well, yeah…” He shrugs, setting aside the dough he’s been working to grab the next. “Think about it. There’s not a lot of time for socialization or romance when you’re fighting a rebellion to regain your crown.”

“Hunk,” he says flatly. “There’s plenty of time for fucking during war.”

“For _soldiers_ maybe, but like… Keith was a prince raised to fight, wasn’t he? And if he had romances or like, literally any tendency to sleep around, we _definitely_ would have heard gossip about it by now.”

“You… have a point…”

“What if he’s—“

Lance gasps, straightening and whirling around to slam his hands on the table. “What if he’s a _virgin_.”

Hunk gives him a flat look. “I was going to say what if he’s never been intimate with someone. Or maybe it’s just been a while. Or maybe he’s like me and he’s only really comfortable being physical with someone once he knows them really well.” Hunk shrugs, leaning his weight forward to grind the heel of his hand into the dough. “There are a lot of reasons why the close intimate contact makes him… uncomfortable.”

“I guess you’re right,” Lance admits with a sigh, shoulders slumping. His brows furrow as he stares at the dough taking shape under Hunk’s hands.

Hunk has a point, of course. Given the king’s reputation for being devilishly handsome and swoon-worthy— combined with the fact that _yes_ , he really is as handsome as the rumors say, Lance has _eyes_ — he hadn’t really considered the fact that Keith might… have never actually been intimate with anyone. He definitely doesn’t _seem_ like the kind of guy to go around seeking out bed partners. And Hunk’s right, if he _had_ , there would _definitely_ be rumors about it.

No wonder the whole kingdom is watching Lance with a close, speculative eye. For a man who never takes lovers, something must be _really_ special about Lance.

Too bad Keith is _terrible_ at keeping up the charade. What kind of man can barely stand to touch his mistress?

One who—

“Or…” Lance says slowly, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Or it’s just… _me_.”

“Lance—“

“No, it makes sense, right? The only time people are _that_ uncomfortable is when they _really_ don’t like the person that’s touching them.” He shrugs, nonchalant to counterbalance the pit forming in his stomach.

Hunk huffs. “He wouldn’t have asked you to help him if he didn’t like you at least a little.”

“But that doesn’t mean he has to like me _physically_. He may not even like men… Oh gods, and I went and draped myself all over him.”

“He kind of asked for that much when he asked you to be his mistress,” Hunk sets his dough aside, picking up another mound of it and slamming it to the table with enough force to snap Lance out of his spiraling thoughts. He startles, jumping as his eyes snap to Hunk, blinking rapidly. Hunk sighs, giving him a steady look. “I get why you’re worried. He’s not exactly making it easy for you. But you’re Lance! The Blue Lion! You’ve been making the best of uncertain and not easy circumstances your whole life. If you deal with _my_ uncertainty all the time, you can definitely handle his.”

Lance smiles, small and wry and so incredibly grateful. “You making a good point…”

Hunk grins, leaning into his kneading. “And, you know, for the record, I think you’re right.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do. He asked you to be his mistress, so you’re doing your best to _do that_. He just might, you know… need some time to relax into it. If anyone can put someone at ease, it’s you.”

“Don’t you mean you?”

Hunk rolls his eyes, affectionate as he leans over and nearly shoves Lance off his stool. “Stop that. You’ve been helping people for years. Now it’s the king’s turn.”

“Okay.” Lance takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he straightens up, the shadow of a confident smile daring to form on his lips. “Okay. Okay. But… where do I start?”

“I dunno,” Hunk says with a shrug. “He asked you to advise him, right? Like he actually said, _advise me_.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“So… advise him. Whether his advisors like it or not. The whole point of you acting as his mistress is to have a little bit of power. If they don’t like you at his side, so what? What’re they going to do? Tell the king no?”

“You know what…” Lance says slowly, already slipping off his stool, getting his feet under him as his heart picks up speed, eyes and grin widening as an idea forms. “You’re right.”

“Oh no,” Hunk says, but it’s with a smile. “I know that look. What’re you going to do?”

Lance straightens, lifting his chin as he brushes off his tunic. “I’m going to get changed into something more suitable,” he says as he saunters across the room, glancing over his shoulder and shooting Hunk a wink. “There’s a council meeting soon. I don’t want to be late.”

* * *

If you ask him, the outfit he chooses is _modest_ , but he’s also fairly certain the members of Keith’s council would argue that it isn’t appropriate for the occasion.

But Lance has a reputation of the _king’s_ arm candy to uphold, and uphold it he will.

The shirt he wears is little more than a vest. Form fitting, tailored, and perfectly snug to his torso. The neckline is a deep V, leading right down between his pecs, showing off a good among of prominent collarbones. It accents his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The sleeves are a translucent material. Shimmering and transparent. From shoulder to wrist. Slitted on the outside, as if one can’t already see his defined arms in perfect clarity.

The pants he wears are little more than leggings, stretching tight over his thighs and cupping the curve of his ass.

And the boots— gods above, he loves these boots— they fit snug to his calves, riding all the way up to his knees. The heel on them isn’t much, short and thick, but it’s just enough to give his bottom an added lift.

He’s _modest_ , alright? Everything is just… very tight and leaves very little about his body to the imagination.

Everything is in various shades of blues, whites, and golds. A perfect contrast to the darker violets, maroons, and blacks that Keith and his people wear. It makes him stand out in all his glory.

He wears a gold choker to draw attention to his throat, as well as a couple gold bracelets and rings. He _might_ have pilfered Keith’s royal jewelry, but he never wears it and the effect of wearing the king’s jewels is an important one.

After all, he _is_ the king’s prized gem.

Beautiful and handsome, wrapped up tight in expensive fabrics and decorated with gold.

He spends a fair amount of time simply admiring himself in the mirror, musing his hair in just the right way. He’s never had access to such finery, and truthfully, he never thought he would. He looks _damn fine_ , if he does say so himself.

Chin held high, he gives his reflection a decisive nod before spinning on his heel and marching out of his suite.

He loses track of the double-takes he gets on his way there, and he revels in the attention. He’s not shy about meeting the eyes of servants, guards, and nobles alike. Offering them a wink, a wave, a little sassy salute, before sashaying his way onward. He’s a man on a mission, after all.

He pauses only once he nears the council’s meeting room. He stops around the corner from it, out of sight of the guards who keep watch at the door. His eyes flutter closed, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Steadying himself. Allowing himself the confidence that he knows he holds.

He’s the _Blue Lion_. He was a noble turned peasant who crawled his way up from the muck to protect the people. He has stood up to men and women like this on a daily basis. He’s seen much worse than those who sit in that chamber hall.

And… despite his faults, hesitations, and awkwardness, Keith— the _Warrior King_ — is his ally.

His ally who brought him here to _advise him_ and help him learn how to navigate ruling a kingdom under the guise of being his mistress. Someone who can sit at his side and look benign all the while listening to everything. A pretty face to hide a cunning mind. Eyes and ears to the king himself.

And Lance intends to do _just that_.

When his eyes snap open, he feels the fire burning behind them. He feels it right down to his very core, smoldering in his chest, bright and hot behind his ribs.

It simmers beneath his skin as he rounds the corner and heads toward the meeting hall in steady, confident strides.

It sings in his veins as he stops before the large double doors, lifting a brow at the guards who step forward to block his path with a gruff, “Halt. There’s a meeting in session.”

It sparks on the tip of his tongue as he says— haughty, confident, and sure— “The _king_ is expecting me.”

It flares in his gut as the two guards exchange wary glances before hesitantly stepping aside.

It roars in his ears as he takes three strides forward, plants his hands on the doors, and throws them open with silent but grand fanfare.

It blazes behind his grin as he takes in the startled stares of everyone around the long meeting table. Surprised. Irritated. Furious. Aghast. Confused. Baffled. Scandalized.

And it heats at the tips of his ears as he meets Keith’s gaze from where he sits in a grand chair at the head of the table, dressed in dark, rich velvet attire, violet eyes wide and startled— before they trail slowly down Lance’s body darkening as he swallows thickly.

Lance lets the silence stretch just to the edge of tense. Just long enough for the doors to swing shut behind him. And then, light and airy, he chuckles. “Apologies,” he says easily. “Don’t stop on my account.”

It takes a couple beats more before one of the nobles finds his tongue. A man that Lance doesn’t yet have a name for. He’ll have to learn all of them. Keep tabs on each and every one. “What is the meaning of this?” He asks, sharp and petulant.

“What are you doing here?” Demands another. “Who let you in?”

“These meetings are _private_ ,” One of them sputters as Lance ignores him, making his way to Keith’s side.

“I’m just here to accompany my king,” he says lightly, bowing deeply towards the man in question, but holding his dark gaze through his lashes, eyes lidded and smirk coy. “Apologies for being late, your majesty. I simply wanted to look my best. I do hope you can forgive me.”

Keith stares at him, shocked and struggling, eyes that had previously _not-so-subtly_ roamed his body— which, Lance notes, is a good sign that he might fancy men after all, and definitely looks good for keeping up appearances— now lock onto Lance’s.

Something passes between them. Silent. Challenging. Understanding.

And slowly, Lance watches Keith’s body relax, tension oozing out of him inch by inch. Watches as his face slides into that familiar, unreadable and impassive scowl. He nods once, and— after a moment of brief hesitation— he reaches out a hand.

“ _Unfortunately,_ your grace,” one of the noblemen says, cutting in sharp and quick, voice dripping with false pleasantries and even falser apologies. “We don’t have any seats to spare for your…” His lip visibly curls before he wrangles it back down, “Mistress.”

Lance turns to find the speaker, eyes narrowing minutely with the smug smile that slides across his lips. “That’s quite alright,” he says sweetly, allowing the fire in his chest to burn away his irritation. His fingers curl around Keith’s, squeezing gently in warning and shooting him a quick, challenging glance.

Holding eye contact, he steps up to the king’s chair, sliding gracefully into the man’s lap.

And for a brief second, Lance fears for the worst, breath held— but Keith is only stiff for a moment.

Under the watchful eyes of his council, Keith wraps an arm easily around Lance’s waist, hand warm and possessive on his hip, making an unwarranted shiver run down his spine. He adjusts them both, leaning back and spreading his thighs a little wider to accommodate the weight, shifting Lance to lean against his side.

When Lance meets his gaze once more, there’s a similar fire burning behind them. A mirror of what’s ignited in his own chest.

Determination. Confidence, in himself and in Lance. Camaraderie. Understanding. A challenge received and taken.

A spark of something new.

He then rests an elbow on the arm of his chair, leaning his chin in his palm as Lance takes it upon himself to run his fingers through Keith’s hair. He stares down his council, that hardened scowl on his face, daring any of them to say a word.

None of them do.

And with an idle wave of his hand, Keith merely says, “Continue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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**Author's Note:**

>  **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
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> To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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